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SHELLS 



SHELLS 



FROM THE 



STRAND OF THE SEA OE GENIUS 



By HARRIET FARLEY, 



FIRST SERIES. 



/or< Or cq,^ 



BOSTON: 
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 

MDCCCXLVII. 






Entered accoidin": to Act of ('onsffiss, in the year 1847, hy 

James Munroe & Company, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



boston: 

printed by thurston, torry &. co. 

31 Devonshire Stiiet. 



DEDICATED 
So UTS J?at]^er anlJ i^ot!)er, 

Who gave me that edacation which has enUvened years of 

labor ; and, while constituting my own happiness, 

has enabled me to contribute to the 

enjoyment of others. 



PREFACE 



These stories, essays, and fancies, have been col- ; 

lected at the suggestion of several kind and highly j 

esteemed friends, who seemed to think that others I 

might be as much gratified with their versatility of i 

style and sentiment as they have been. ] 

Most of them were first published in the Lowell 
Offering, hastily written, and but slightly revised. 

The writer must crave indulgence from the critics, 

and more especially for her rhymes. Some of them 

are very faulty in rhythm, and altogether too bad to , 

be mended. Whether they are worthy of publication j 

she leaves for the reader to decide. i 

I 
A collection of shells, not intrinsically beautiful, I 

may by a tasteful arrangement produce a very pleas- j 

ing effect. This merit her work does not possess.' | 

The original design was broken by a request for matter 
to enlarge the book, and the sketches included between 
pages 147 and 224, were prepared after those preced- 
ing them were printed. 



X PREFACE. 

Should the sale of this work authorize the publica- 
tion of another volume, it will be succeeded by a 
Second Series, containing The Princess^ an Oriental 
Fairy Tale ; Garjilena, the Songstress, a Hungarian 
Tale; and Ermengarde of the Rhine, and the Dia- 
mond King. 

She trusts that these shells, started from their 
depths by the bold and skilful navigator, yet collected 
by a hasty and humble wanderer upon the shore, may 
not be deemed utterly unworthy of a place in the cab- 
inet or the parlor. 

H. F. 

Shady Nook, 
January, 1847. 



CONTENTS. 



PAOX 
THE SEA OF GENIUS . . . , .1 

THE PLEASURES OF SCIENCE . . . . 11 

THE GARDEN OF SCIENCE . . . . .14 

AN ALLEGORY . . . . . ' . - 17 

AMBITION AND CONTENTMENT . . . .22 

ANCIENT POETRY . . . . , 32 

GLORY OF LIGHT . . . . . .36 

A weaver's REVERIE ..... 40 

JOANNE OF ARC . . . . . .44 

ABBY's YEAR IN LOWELL .... 56 

THE FIRST BELLS , . . . . .67 

A FRAGMENT ...... 78 

FATHER MOODY . . . . . .81 

DEAL GENTLY ...... 88 

THE PHILOSOPHER . . . . . .92 

FACTORY ROMANCE . . . . .100 

WOMAN . . . . . . .115 

ARISTOCRACY OF EMPLOYMENT . . . . 121 

THE UNSETTING SUN ..... 132 

THE PORTRAIT GALLERY .... 147 

THE COUNTRY LAWYER ..... 180 

THE PATCHWORK QUILT .... 183 



XU CONTENTS. 

VILLAGE PASTORS . . . . . .191 

THE FURBELOWED BONNET . . . 207 

SCENES ON THE MERRIMAC ..... 214 

THE MAN OUT OF THE MOON .... 224 

THE WINDOW DARKENED ..... 236 

POETICAL PIECES. 

LINES ADDRESSED TO THE COMET .... 243 

THE mouse's visit ..... 248 

THE SONG OF THE SHOE ..... 252 

THE SEQUESTERED HARP .... 255 

THE TASK OF DEATH ..... 259 

LAST EFFORT OF THE POETESS .... 270 

THE TRUE MOURNER ..... 272 

"he is NOT HERE HE IS RISEN" . . . 274 

LAMENT OF THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK . . . 276 

THE LAME CHILD TO HER MOTHER . . . 280 

THE DREAM-LAND ...... 283 

ROOM FOR THE DEAD ..... 286 

THE HEATHEN WIFE . . . . . 289 



SHELLS 

FROM THE STRAND OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 



THE SEA OF GENIUS. 

One lovely summer evening, I sat reading the fas- 
cinating production of one of our female authors. The 
brilliant hues of sunset had faded from the western 
horizon; twilight had deepened into darkness ; the 
Queen of Night had arisen in her soft splendor ; all 
sounds of man and beast were stilled ; and the hush 
of midnight was upon all Nature. Yet, unheeding this, 
I sat entranced by visions of fancy, far more beautiful 
than aught with which earth could present me ; and 
not till the last page was perused, and reperused, by 
eyes which were loath to turn from it, was the en- 
chantment over. And then arose a deep, irrepressible 
wish that / too might possess the gift of genius ; that 
I might shine a brilliant star in the literary galaxy, 
and throw a spell around the hearts of others, even as 
mine own had been enthralled this night. 

And yet I know it to be a fearful gift ; too often 
bringing upon its envied possessor poverty, censure, 
I 



/i SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

obloquy, madness and premature death. It is the key 
of a fated chamber, which no threat nor warning can 
deter its possessor from entering, though she may 
vainly regret the act when she sees that it is filled 
with nought but blood, horror, and decay ; and from 
the consequences of her rash conduct, too seldom does 
the Selim of plain, practical common sense, come to 
rescue his presumptuous Fatima. 

Those who in olden time invented tales of mortals 
who, for a few years of supernatural power over their 
fellow beings, sold themselves for all eternity to the 
Prince of Darkness, were not ignorant of the human 
heart. They knew of a chord which vibrates in many 
a bosom ; and I now felt the discord which its touch 
could create in my own mind. My feelings were pain- 
fully aroused, and I went to my window that I might 
look upon the sparkling canopy of heaven ; for when 
murmuring thoughts arise within me, I love to look 
upon the stars — not upon the brighter ones, though 
they shine so unconscious of their loveliness ; but, ra- 
ther, 

Would look upon some little star, 

Which is so faint, and very far, 

I almost think I gaze on air, 

And doubt if aught be gleaming there. 

For the little stars say not one to another, "I am not 
Sirius, nor Arcturus, nor Aldebaran, and no one will 
heed me, and take note of my feeble rays; " but they 
come modestly out after their more brilliant sisters; 
and as darkness gathers around them, they send forth 
brighter and brighter rays, and give to the night-sky 
its beauty. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. O 

Even thus may we, like the lesser stars, come forth 
ill our humble stations of life, unenvious of those who 
shine in wealth, power and splendor ; and when trials, 
sorrows and gloom gather about us, may we put forth 
every power, and do all that in us lies to make life 
gladsome. 

Thus I mused as I gazed upon the stars, and such 
the lesson I learned from "Heaven's own alphabet; " 
but when my mind had become more calm and tran- 
quil, they began to fade away. Fainter grew the stars, 
and blacker the sky, till I was left in darkness. And 
with the sight of those lovely orbs, their sweet influ- 
ence also passed away ; and again arose within me the 
yearning desire for a gift which might never be mine. 
In the earnestness of my spirit, I prayed for it aloud, 
and called wildly on Inspiration. 

Scarcely had I spoken, ere I saw a being approach- 
ing me through the gloom. His form was tall and 
majestic ; his white robes floated gracefully about him, 
as thin and light as a summer cloud ; his long silvery 
locks hung loosely over his shoulders ; his sunken 
cheek and lofty brow were like polished marble ; and 
his large black liquid eyes were full of a brightness 
like the light which flashes up when the sun shines on 
a deep fountain. He cast upon me a mingled glance 
of sorrow and rebuke, and then said, " Come with me." 
So I followed him, guided through the darkness by the 
brightness of his garments ; for I knew that it was he 
upon whom I had called, and that Inspiration now 
conducted me. 

At length he stopped ; and turning, said to me, 
'' What seest thou ? " I replied, '' There are dim shad- 



4 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

ows about me, and I can see nothing distinctly." 
'' Thine eye," said he, " will soon become more accus- 
tomed; but tell me what thou hearest? " And I said, 
"I hear a loud, confused sound, as of many troubled 
waters." " Thou hast heard aright," said Inspiration ; 
'' but look again, and tell me what thou seest." I re- 
plied, "We are standing on the shore of a vast sea, 
the waters of which are rough, black and stormy : 
there are many ships of different sizes on the tossing 
waves, and a low black cloud is over tis and them. 
Tell me, what is the sea, and whose are the vessels?" 

Inspiration replied, "The sea before thee is the Sea 
of Genius, and the vessels are the creations of those 
who inhabit and conduct them. They are built, in- 
scribed, and ornamented according to my suggestions ; 
and none but those on whom I bestow my directions 
and counsels, can make a bark which will long 
weather those tempestuous waters. True, there are 
those who, by much industry and skilful imitation, 
will construct a vessel, and launch upon the Sea of 
Genius ; but while there, they are the sport of the 
winds and waves, and are soon tossed upon the strand, 
where for a short time they remain dismantled wrecks, 
and then crumble to pieces. Those, on the contrary, 
whom I choose to favor with my assistance, can make 
a ship which will last long after the builder's hand has 
crumbled into dust, and his career across yon sea has 
been for many ages ended. Walk with me upon the 
shore, and see those noble vessels which long have 
been, and long will be, the admiration of your race." 

So I walked with Inspiration on the strand, which 
was covered with vessels of many forms and sizes. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. O 

The first which I noticed was a noble ship, which, 
though it bore the marks of ages long gone by, was 
still sound and unshattered. Many men had gathered 
around it, and were viewing with deep interest the 
imagery and inscriptions with which it was covered. 
But the language was unknown to me, and Inspiration 
bade me listen to the interpreters. I heard them tell 
strange deeds of beings unlike us, and I also listened 
to tales of the heroes of other days. I lingered not 
long, however, for but fcAV of my sex were there ; yet 
ere I left I looked upon the name, and found that it 
was Homer. 

Farther on, there was another vessel, on which was 
the name of Virgil. Again I listened awhile to the 
interpreters ; and then I passed on by many other ves- 
sels, until I came to those inscribed with the language 
which I knew. I saw the names of Churchill, Chat- 
terton, Spe7iser,Dryden,3,nd others] but one particularly 
attracted my attention, by its size and beauty, and the 
vast multitudes gathered around it. Among them were 
interpreters of different tongues, but I could now look 
upon the noble ship itself, and read with my own eyes 
its numerous inscriptions, and admire its richly traced 
imagery. I read the tales of other climes, and other 
days ; and wondered at the vastness and versatility of 
the talent of him who could thus enrich and beautify 
this majestic ship. The name of it was Shakspeare. 

I looked also on another noble ship, on which Avas 
the name of Milton. I saw there depicted earthly 
scenes of more than earthly beauty, and also viewed 
the pictures of other worlds. 

I saw, too, a darkly colored vessel, inscribed with 
1^ 



b SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

many melancholy scenes, the name of which was 
Young. And another, upon which were delicately 
traced many sad and many pleasing pictures, and 
scenes of sweet domestic life. The name of it was 
CoiDper. And one, which bore the name of Thomson^ 
was covered with copies of Nature's loveliest scenery, 
and inscribed with many pleasing sentiments. 

I gazed with pleasure on a ship which at first I 
thought a very ancient one, for it had been covered 
Avith old moss and withered leaves, and the inscriptions 
were of long past times. The name of it was Ossian. 

There were also two beautiful ships, in whose con- 
struction Inspiration had evidently been prodigal of his 
instructions. The names of these were Bur?is and 
Byron. The first was built of Highland oak ; and its 
rough appearance indicated massy strength, and prom- 
ised durability. The other, though evidently as strong, 
was smooth as polished metal. Both were inscribed 
with beautiful thoughts, and on both were depicted 
scenes on which it pained me to look. ''Thou didst 
much for them both," said I to Inspiration. " And 
much in vain," was his reply. 

I looked also on many other vessels, for they had be- 
come more numerous as I passed on, and the shore was 
more thickly strown with the remains of those which 
had gone to wreck. Some had crumbled to atoms, and 
others were loosely holding together. "These," said 
Inspiration, as he picked up some scattered remnants, 
"were tlte productions of those who vainly imagined 
they could build a durable ship without my assistance. 
Fools are they who long to embark upon those stormy 
waves, unless they knotv that my voice will cheer and 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 



encourage them. Look again, vain mortal! on the 
Sea of Genius, for thy more accustomed eye can dis- 
cern the inscriptions on the vessels which are now 
careering there." 

So I looked again upon the sea, and the ships thereon; 
and I now saw that the waters were not alike rough 
on every part of its surface; but while in some places 
the tossing waves foamed angrily, in others they were 
almost calm and placid. I saw, too, that above us was 
not one single cloud, but a mingled mass of light and 
darker vapors, though all of a sombre hue. The winds 
were not alike favorable to all the vessels, but some 
were gaily wafted on, and others impelled with violence. 
I fixed my eye on a bark remarkable for its beauty and 
dimensions. I thought at first that the name of it was 
The Great Unknown: but after looking longer, I saw 
that it was the Walter Scott. It skimmed lightly along 
the rough waves, and it was evident that a buoyant heart 
and skilful hand were at the helm. Many thronged 
the shore to watch its beauteous career, and listen to 
the voice which could sing so many different lays. But 
at length a dark cloud gathered above that noble ship ; 
strong winds arose to retard its course, and agitate the 
sea around it. Yet proudly on it went over the dark 
waters, and new energies were put forth to hasten its 
course. Farther on was a lighter sky and smoother 
sea, and a gazing multitude hoped soon to see that glo- 
rious struggle ended; but at length the voice ceased, the 
hand dropped, the form had vanished, and the ship 
came to the shore amidst a long loud wail from many 
hearts. 

"He was thy favorite," said I to Inspiration. "Yet 



° SHELLS FKOM THE STRAND 



he was not wholly devoted to me," was his reply. — 
''When those I have thus cherished, look to worldly 
pomp and splendor to enhance their happiness, I often 
desert them; but I never left him. I could not leave him." 

Again I looked upon the sea, and saw a lovely ship 
with snowy sails, wending its way across the dark 
waters. The name of it was Hemans^ and beautiful 
was the imagery with which she had adorned her bark, 
and plaintively sweet the voice which proceeded frpm 
it. The sky was lowering, and the winds blew rough, 
and none seemed to favor her but Inspiration. Bright 
was her course amid the storm; and deep was the sor- 
row of an admiring crowd, when the deserted vessel 
struck the strand. 

I saw another beautiful ship playfully bounding over 
the waves, on which was the name of Howitt ; and 
another on which were the initials of L. E. L. ; but a 
dark cloud came over the latter, and with a sudden 
plunge, it sank into the sea. and then floated a deserted 
vessel to the shore. 

I looked also on others which seemed even nearer to 
me, and which bore the names of Irving^ Cooper^ Wil- 
lis^ Bryant, Gould, Sigourney, and Sedgioick. And 
once a little fairy skiff* appeared upon the Sea of Genius. 
A childish form was at the helm, and a sweet voice 
arose upon the breeze : but the sea was too rough, and 
she too devoted; and soon, too soon, that light bark 
came to the shore amid the sighs and tears of many dis- 
appointed friends. The name of it was Lucretia Maria 
Davidson.* "She also was a favorite," said I, turn- 
ing to my guide ; and it might be because my own eyes 

* This was first published before the writer had heard of Margaret M. 
Davidson. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. \f 

were dimmed, that I thought I saw tears in those of 
Inspiration. 

There were also some other vessels, whose pecu- 
liar appearance attracted my attention. They were 
painted black, so that it required a closely discerning 
eye to read the inscriptions, which were in a language 
unknown to me ; but I could read the names — and 
among them were those of Goethe, Schiller, He?^der, 
Knim/nacher, <^c. "Listen to the interpreters," said 
Inspiration, " and then tell me how thou art pleased 
with their words." I replied, " The voices of some of 
them come to my ear like the songs of beings from 
another sphere ; there is in them a vague, indistinct 
sense of beauty, which I can neither appreciate nor un- 
derstand. Others again seem to me like the sounds of 
well known music, as it comes gently stealing over 
moon-lit waters. Others again seem to me like jargon 
and nonsense." " I like thy sincerity," said Inspira- 
tion, "but thou betrayest much ignorance." "I know 
I am ignorant," was my reply ; but I fain would 
know, and thou canst teach me. Let me be thy pupil 
— nay, even thy slave, though I may never be thy 
favored child." "It cannot be," Avas the answer of 
Inspiration, " for I have not willed it." " And yet," 
said I to him, "there are none upon that sea who 
would be more attentive to thy voice, nor more grate- 
ful for thine instructions. Teach me also to build a 
ship, and let me launch upon the Sea of Genius." 

Inspiration replied, " Neither tears nor prayers have 
ever prevailed with me to bestow my counsels on 
those I myself had not chosen. Many would be on 
that sea who now stand watching on the shore, if 



10 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

their own wishes and unaided efforts could avail them. 
And it should be a cause of rejoicing to thee, that I 
have this once deigned to show thee my face." 

I had fallen at the feet of my conductor, and now I 
arose in my hopelessness to leave the place. But the 
gloom was changed to brilliant light, and the form of 
Inspiration had vanished in the brightness. I looked 
on the sea, but its waters seemed changed to liquid 
gold, and the waves rolled on in sweet harmony. 

I lifted my eyes to the sky above, but the clouds 
were now a waving flame ; and when I raised my 
hand to shade me from the dazzling sight, the motion 
awoke me, and behold ! it was a dream. 

I was still sitting by the window from which the 
stars had disappeared the night before ; but now it 
was morning, and the rising sun had thrown his first 
beams on my unshaded eyelids. The birds had com- 
menced their joyous carols, and their matin songs had 
mingled with the voices of my dream. The opening 
flowers shed around a sweet fragrance, and the dew- 
drops were sparkling in the sun light. The beasts 
had awaked to their morning pleasures ; the husband- 
man was cheerfully commencing his labors , and all 
nature was alive to joy and beauty. The stars of the 
night had subdued me to placid resignation, but the 
morning sun aroused me to buoyancy and gladness. 
The oppressive heaviness of that strange dream had 
passed away ; and when I saw all around me so con- 
tented and cheerful, I resolved that I too would go 
actively about the humble duties of the day, and 
never more repine because I might not steer a bark 
across the black and stormy Sea of Genius. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. H 



THE PLEASURES OF SCIENCE. 

It is difficult for those whose hves are spent in the 
hurry of business, and the excitement of general society, 
whose pleasures are those of a giddy crowd, and whose 
amusements are shared by a mirth-loving throng, to 
conceive of the joys of the lonely student, or imagine 
the recompense he receives, when he resigns all other 
good for the charms of Science. But though we whose 
thoughts are absorbed by the daily cares of a toilsome 
life, and whose intellects are dulled by neglect, or 
warped by misuse, may not be able to comprehend those 
pleasures, still we may be assured they do exist for those 
whose minds have strength and perseverance for their 
pursuit. 

There are men whose souls are bound within the 
limits of the laboratory, or the lecture-room ; and those 
whose hearts are still within their breasts, save when 
they leap forth from some lone observatory into the 
midnight heavens ; and there are those who are alive 
but to the beautiful and curious in the works of Nature, 
or the organization of their brother man, and who for 
these joys have resigned the charms of the social circle, 
and the quiet delights of domestic bliss. We speak of 
the exclusive devotees of Science ; those for whom the 
parlor is more lonely than the chamber, and who are 
but fools, or madmen, when they go forth into a world 
for which they have unfitted themselves. When their 
heads throb with undue labor, or over-excitement, there 
is not for them the hand of love to press the aching brow, 
or the sweet voice of love to wile away the hours of 



12 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

tedious gloom. No ; these are not their pleasures ; but 
"Yerily they have their reward." The Botanist 
looks with a more earnest eye upon the beauties of 
Nature, than does the Painter or the Poet ; and in 
those plants which escape the notice of the latter, he can 
find both occupation and amusement. Yes, his heart 
has warmed amid the snows of Lapland, as he observed 
its curious moss, and the sight of an Alpine plant has 
sent a glow into his shivering frame. The Geologist 
will traverse with unwearied step full many a weary 
mile, and climb with unshrinking nerve the high and 
craggy precipice. The Astronomer heeds not the dews 
and frosts of the chilly night, so that he can but gaze 
upon a cloudless sky. The Chemist fears not the dan- 
gers of his critical experiments; and the Mathematician 
envies not the gaities of his livelier friends, so that he 
may be allowed uninterrupted solitude. 

There are many other sciences, each of Avhich has 
its zealous votaries, and all their partial followers. But 
even the most devoted are not exclusively selfish, for 
they have pleasures less egotistical than mere amuse- 
ment. Each feels that his science is a benefit to the 
heedless world, and though his labors may be unappre- 
ciated, he yet believes them productive of good. And he 
who has the hardest scientific task, that of promulgat- 
ing the long-sought truths, is supported by a faith as 
undoubting as it is ardent and pure. What to him are 
the sneers of the contemptuous, or the railleries of 
the ignorant 7 for he knows that a day shall come when 
persecution will change to adulation, and the tones of 
contempt to those of approbation. Yes, he feels that 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 13 

that time unll come^ though the voice of praise may 
never reach kis ear, or the smiles of gratitude meet his 
eye ; for both shall be closed in death. 

No pleasures can be purer than scientific ones, 
excepting those of Religion, and none but these are 
less subject to the vicissitudes of life. They whose 
enjoyments are derived from wealth, from power, from 
the applause of the multitude, or any of the hopes of 
earth, how often have we heard of their disappointments ! 
And even those who have placed their chief reliance 
for happiness upon domestic bliss, may be deprived by 
death of the partners of their pleasure ; and then how 
desolate are they, unless they have learned to hope for 
a reunion in "that blest world where sorrows never 
come." 

The pleasures which are produced by and dependent 
upon the elastic buoyancy of youth, are very different 
from those of Science. He who tastes the latter can 
never regret the former ; for a light is shed upon his 
path which brightens as the darkness of age comes on, 
and dissipates the gloom which too often rests upon 
those who have placed their hopes and their hearts 
on the vanities of a changing world. 

Neither are these enduring pleasures less lively and 
exhilerating than those of a transitory character. I 
have heard of a geologist who traveled far to satisfy 
himself, by observation, respecting a theory which he 
had adopted ; and when he came to the mountain pass 
which was to be the test, and his warmest hopes were 
realized, his joy was too great for utterance. And the 
great Swedish Naturalist, who left his own loved cr nntry 
2 



14 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

to view the different beauties of other lands, when he 
first saw the yellow hills of Scotland, knelt down and 
blessed God that he had made the furze. 



THE GARDEN OF SCIENCE. 

Science has been beautifully compared to a Hill ; 
may it not also be likened to a vast Garden ? Its dif- 
ferent branches are the various paths, and its facts, 
experiments and theories, are the many plants and 
flowers. This garden has been redeemed by much toil 
and care from the vast wastes of Ignorance, and its 
verge is now but too barren. The shades of the dark 
Forest of Mystery throw a gloom upon its borders, and 
but few of its walks give evidence of long continued 
cultivation. 

But these old paths are thronged by a cheerful mul- 
titude, who are ever busy in the culture of its beauteous 
plants, the admiration of its blossoms, or the enjoyment 
of its fruits. They are bound together by strong 
sympathies, and though of many different climes and 
tongues, yet they feel that their hearts are in sweet 
unison. They gaze together with heightened delight 
Lipon the loveliness around them, and their glad voices 
cheer each other on their way. 

Some confine themselves to but one path, where they 
find full employment in the cultivation of the plants 
which belong to them exclusively. They heed not the 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 15 

perfumes which arise from some distant flowers, or the 
beauties which attract their friends to some other grove. 
Their senses are engrossed by their own loved blossoms; 
they scan minutely their texture, form and color ; they 
exult in their beauty, and fondly believe there is no 
odor like that exhaled from their petals. 

But there are others, who, either from less concen- 
trative powers, or more expansion of mind, diffuse their 
labors and their joys among the many diflferent walks. 
They enjoy the beauties, the fragrance, and the delights 
of all. They love those flowers more perhaps for their 
beauty, than their utility, and often seek their own 
happiness more than the good of others. They can 
appreciate the labors of the plodding and diligent, yet 
seldom strive to imitate them ; and when they exert 
themselves, it is but to smooth the rough walks and 
ornament the bowers. 

In this garden. Woman is not an unwelcome visitant, 
though she would once have been deemed an intruder 
there. But now, when she enters its precincts, a help- 
ing hand is given, and cheering words are spoken. She 
walks erect and free amid the admiring throng, and 
never is the intercourse of the sexes more delightful, 
pure, and unrestrained, than in those beauteous groves 
and bowers. In the new and yet uncultivated portions 
of that garden, she is but seldom seen, and few but the 
strong and fearless are there to be found. Of these, a 
few occasionally extend their steps to the verge of the 
waste, and then unguided and alone, they strike out a 
new path. They heed not the pleasures and the sym- 
pathies which they have left behind ; they feel not the 
blasts which sweep over their unsheltered forms ; and 



16 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

they breast alone the difficuhies which surround them. 
They seek the small wild flowers, and when they have 
found some stunted plants, they hail with joy the happy 
discovery ; and then they scan its tiny blossoms, and 
thmk they see the promise of future beauty and use- 
fulness. Their prospective eye looks forward to a time 
when this path will also be thronged with admirers, 
and those feeble plants shall flourish beneath assiduous 
hands, in full and graceful luxuriance. They also 
think that the now secret virtues of those plants will 
one day be widely known, and that in their leaves will 
then be found a balm for healing. 

I have compared the votaries of Science to those who 
linger in a vast garden. Yet I may not deem myself 
a ivanderer there. I am but a distant observer, and 
''view as through a glass, darkly." But through the 
dim perspective, I can see that for those favored ones 
there are pleasures which may not die. For them there 
are cooling founts and murmuring streams ; for them 
are the rainbow's brightest hues, and the morn's most 
sparkling dew-drops ; for them soft breezes blow, and 
fragrance floats on every passing zephyr; for them 
the birds sing their sweetest songs, bearing music to 
the ear, and joy to the heart ; and for them the flowers 
put forth their brightest tints, and they bloom in colors 
which never fade away. Their food is from a never- 
failing store, and their drink from fountains of living 
water. They never tire nor faint, neither do they weary 
of that place, since new beauties greet their eyes at 
each advancing step, and darkness never veils the 
splendor of that scene, for it is lighted by a sun of ever- 
brightening glory. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 17 



AN ALLEGORY. 

It was an evening in times long past, when Creation 
was yet young, and Earth had not settled into that 
monotonous routine which since has marked her daily 
course. Yes, Day had passed, and Evening stole along 
with quiet step, and sober mien, and softly spread, o'er 
field and hill, her dark grey dusky robe. 

But Earth moaned sadly, and the breezes filled the 
ear of Evening with her voice of wailing. Then Even- 
ing said, ''Why art thou thus disquieted, oh Earth? 
and why dost thou refuse to lie, in quiet, beneath the 
robe which I have spread above thee?" 

And Earth said, "Because there is in it no beauty. 
Day Cometh, and giveth me a mantle of brightest green. 
At her voice the flowers raise their heads, and she 
arrayeth them in gorgeous hues, but at thy approach, 
they bow upon their stems, for thou taketh away their 
loveliness. It is not thus that thou hast dealt by the 
sky : for, though thou hast taken away its many col- 
ored clouds, and brilliant sun, yet hast thou placed 
therein a million gems, and it is filled with glory." 

Then Evening mused awhile, and said, "Thou hast 
not spoken ill : and Earth, at night, shall also have her 
jewels." 

So she sprinkled it with dew-drops, which studded 
every bush and tree, and sparkled o'er each vale and 
hill. 

And Earth looked upward to the sky and smiled, for 
Evening now had given both their glittering beauty. 
2* 



18 SHELLS FKOM THE STRAND 



HOPE AND DESPAIR. 

" Beware of desperate steps ; the darkest day, 
Live till to-morrow, will have passed away." 

'' Go," said I sternly to a beautiful figure, with 
laughing eyes and sunny brow, who was endeavoring 
to cheer me by the sweet melodies which he awakened 
from a harp he held in his hand, and ever and anon 
accompanied by the thrilling strains which gushed 
from his lips. '-Go, Hope, thou deceiver, and let me 
never again hear thy false words and beguiling tones; 
they have already betrayed me to ruin; and now leave 
me, that I may at least see clearly the gulf into which 
I have been led." 

But Hope still lingered, and his merry laugh rang 
in my ears till I stopped them against that sound of 
mockery, and again bade the false one leave me to 
myself. 

"When I am gone, you are deserted by your best 
friend," was the reply of Hope. 

" But not by a true one," I added bitterly ; " how 
often in bygone hours have you painted to my eager 
eyes some picture of brightest beauty, and told me then, 
that it Avas but a shadow of those scenes of happiness, 
in which I yet should bear a part ; but the phantasm 
would quickly fade away, only to be renewed by 
others as beautiful and false. But I can no longer be 
deluded; my eyes are now opened to thy hollow 
treachery, and I can never again be the dupe of thy 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 19 

artfulness. Do not stay, for I will neither listen to 
thy voice, nor gaze upon thy face." 

Hope looked wistfully at me for a moment, and his 
fingers moved as if to sweep his harp-strings, but I 
bade him desist ; and, wrapping his bright mantle 
about him, he unfolded his white pinions and flew 
away. One burst of farewell music fell on the stilly 
air, then slowly died away, and I was left alone. 

"You are mine," said a hoarse deep voice; and 
turning, I beheld the lank form and cadaverous visage 
of Despair, who, "grinning horribly a ghastly smile,'' 
again added, •• You are mine. I have long been wait- 
ing for the time when, weary of Hope's delusions, you 
should banish him from your presence ; for not till 
then might I venture to approach you. We cannot 
live together, and the votaries of one have nought to 
fear from the other. You have found that Hope is 
false ; his syren words beguile but to betray ; but mine 
are those of fearful truth. Come with me. then, thou 
ruined one ; for truth, alas, you sought too late.'' 

"Nay, nay," said I, in supplicating dread — for 
there was an appalling influence in the cold, stern 
gaze and hollow voice of Despair, which took from 
me all power to command him to depart: "I have 
banished Hope, but not because I would be with thee; 
for surely, truth may yet be found without the aid of 
cold Despair.'' 

'• But not by thee," and his words fell like an ice- 
bolt on my heart: "you have followed Hope, and 
trusted him, and guided your every action by his 
whimsical counsels, until you have found yourself in 
tlie gulf of ruin.'' 



20 ^ SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

"Nay, tell me not of utter ruin; I have friends to 
aid me, and a long life still in view ; I have banished 
the deceiver, and past errors may yet be retrieved." 

"Too late! too late!" was the stern reply of De- 
spair. " You listened too eagerly, confidingly, and 
long, to my rival. He has left you in obedience to 
your own commands, and now you are wholly in my 
power. You spake of friends ; but would those who 
think themselves your friends, be such, if they knew 
all your wickedness, all your miserable folly and cre- 
dulity? It is not you whom they love, but that which 
you have seemed to them. You know that I speak 
the words of truth : " and I clasped my hands upon 
my aching brow, for I dared not gainsay the words of 
Despair. "You spake of life," continued he; "come 
with me, and I will show you where your future life 
is to be spent." 

I passively followed my ghastly guide, till he 
brought me to the bank of a deep, sluggish stream. 
Its black waters flowed on in a stillness unbroken by 
nought but the yells and moans of those who, on the 
opposite bank, were dragging out a wretched existence 
in the dark regious of Despair. " You must plunge 
into this stream," said my guide, in a tone of com- 
mand ; " yonder is your future home, and those are to 
be your companions." 

"It is the river of death," said I; "and none may 
cross its waves save at His bidding, who is mightier 
than thou." 

" Speak not of Him," replied my grim companion. 
"Said I not that you are mine, and my commands 
must be obeyed? He heeds you not; He deserted 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 21 

you when you banished Hope ; there is nought for you 
here, and where those wretched beings wail forth their 
tones of agony, there shall you go." 

He raised his fleshless arm to thrust me in the 
stream, when a flash of brilliant light burst over the 
gloomy waters; a strain of richest harmony came 
floating on the wind, and then a sound, "like the faint 
shiver of a wing," attracted my upward gaze. I 
looked, and there "he, the departed, stood." Hope had 
again returned, and once more his cheering words fell 
sweetly on my ears. "Burst from him," said he, 
"and I will again be with thee." New strength came 
like electric fire through my frame, as I listened once 
more to the voice of Hope. With one earnest effort I 
released myself from the grasp of Despair ; and bound- 
ing from him, I cast myself at the feet of my former 
companion. One fearfid yell rang through the murky 
air, and Despair had passed away. 

"And wilt thou again listen to me," said Hope, 
" and believe and obey me? " 

"Not," said T, "as I once did ; then I believed too 
easily, and trusted too fondly, and too far; yet better 
are even thy false words, than the stern, heart-break- 
ing truths of Despair. Truths, did I say ? Nay, he 
is as false as thou hast been, and far more unwelcome. 
Yet I will not wholly forget all he has told me, nor too 
credulously believe in thee. Sing again thy sweet 
melodies, but let them tell of the joys of the spirit- 
land. Picture again thy bright visions, but lay the 
scenes in another world. Brighten again my earthly 
path, but let the light come down from above; and 



22 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

when thou shalt again depart from earth, may it be 
'but to fold thy wings in heaven.'" 

''Despair has gone," said Hope, in a sweet, mild 
tone; "but his influence is still upon thy soul; there 
is joy for thee even here, though a purer bliss awaits 
thee in that better land; " and Hope struck his harp, 
and again I listened to its melody. 

I was cheered and invigorated ; I returned again to 
my former haunts, and mingled in the busy scenes of 
life. And though I never again would yield to the 
sweet delusions of Hope, and permitted him no more 
to sing those strains of visionary joy, — neither would 
I entirely banish him from my presence, being con- 
vinced that he alone could save me from the visits of 
Despair. 



AMBITION AND CONTENTMENT. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



It was morning. A mother watched her beauteous 
boy, as he frolicked among the garden flowers, or 
sportively anticipated the southern breeze, which 
stealthily came on its wonted errand to bear away 
upon its silken wings the diamond gems with which 
Night had so lavishly bestudded each leaf of the grove 
and herb of the field ; and as he shook the bright dew- 
drops from the low wild-flowers, or more beauteous 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 23 

blossoms of the garden parterre, he gaily laughed in 
his childish glee. 

Nor did he pause in his wild pastime, save when he 
cast an upward glance at the sky-lark, soaring on to 
her own sweet music, as though it were her mission to 
pour that tribute of melody upon the fleecy clouds, 
which were blushing in the crimson robes thrown over 
their varying forms by the rising King of Day. And 
a thoughtful smile came upon the full lips, and beamed 
from the bright eyes of the fair child, as his young 
heart thrilled to that matin song. 

But the flowers were many, and their hues were 
very beautiful; and the perfume with which they 
loaded the morning breeze in return for its slight caress, 
was very sweet; and the gay butterflies flitted about, 
or shadowed with their gorgeous wings the opening 
petals of those lovely earth-stars, as if they were Flower- 
Spirits, guarding and admiring the sweet objects of 
their care. 

So the boy withdrew his gaze from the glories of 
heaven, and fixed them again upon the beauties of 
earth : and his heart no longer swelled within him at 
the gushing strains of the heaven-bound lark, for he 
listened to nought but the chirp of the cricket, the song 
of the grasshopper, and the buzz of the silver- winged 
flies, which hummed amid the fragrant herbage ; and 
he renewed his wild play, and sported, like the passing 
zephyr, with the frail flowerets around him. 

The morning passed. The mother's eyes were still 
upon her son, and she saw that he began to weary of 
the wonted pastime with flowerets, dew-drops and but- 
terflies, and that a shadow was stealing upon his sunny 



24 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

brow, and the sparkle was fading from his joyous eyes; 
and she called the bright boy to her side, and asked 
him why he had ceased his merry shout, and why the 
gloom had so early settled upon his spirit. 

And the child said, "Mother, the dew-drops are gone; 
the pink shadows of the morning clouds no longer rest 
upon the limpid lake ; the blue haze, which slightly 
veiled the mountain-tops, has faded all away ; the 
breeze now sleeps within the forest-shade, and beneath 
the shrubbery of the garden ; the flowers are drooping 
on their stems, or folding up their withered blossoms, 
— say, dearest mother, say, why should I longer shout 
for joy, or smile again in sunny glee 7" 

And the mother pressed her boy closer to her side, 
and her low voice fell softly upon his ears, as she 
answered, '-'My son, are there not other beauties and 
other pleasures than those of the early morn ? and is 
thy heart saddened that they should so quickly fade 
away 7 But behold the sun, for he is high in the 
heavens ; the labor of the day is before thee. Go now 
about thine appointed task, and thank thy Father in 
heaven that the day has dawned so brightly, and that 
so joyous a morning has been given to gladden thy 
heart, and strengthen thy frame." 

And the boy said, ''Mother, will there be no more 
morning 7 Will the flowers no longer bloom 7 and the 
insects no longer sing 7 and the dew-drops never more 
sparkle 7 and the zephyrs no more play with the slight 
tendrils of the vine 7" 

And the mother replied, " To each day there is but 
one morn ; but our Father above has assured us that 
the day shall follow the night, and that when we he 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 26 

down to sleep, it shall surely be to wake again. But 
if we would lie down to rest in peace, and would waken 
beneath His approving smile, it must be with the con- 
sciousness of a day well spent, and a night anticipated 
as a release from useful toil. Yet God forbid that 
no more flowers should gladden thine eyes, and no 
more music enliven thy heart ; but the carols of early 
birds, and the fragrance of oldening flowers, are delights 
which this day can never again bestow. My son can 
no more return to the haunts of his morning pleasures; 
or if he could, those gardens, fields and vales would 
no more offer the delights which have beguiled his 
gone-by hours. Yet in the pilgrim-path before him, 
there may be joys which will better meet his maturer 
mind. Flowers may blossom by the way-side, and 
leisure may be given the passing traveler to enjoy their 
sweet odor. Birds may carol in the shadowing trees, 
and may the ears and heart of my child be ever 
unsealed to their simple melody. Sky -larks may never 
again attract thine upward gaze, but let those morning 
songs reverberate in the deep recesses of thy heart, 
and the ears of thy soul listen to the low echoes of 
their minstrelsy. So shall the brightness of the morn- 
ing illuminate the coming day, as the sun sends forward 
roseate robes, ' for the clouds which wait upon his 
rising." 

And the boy said, "Mother, there is but one direc- 
tion, and that is, forward ; but there are many paths. 
Is there no chart? no guide for the inexperienced 
one?" 

And the mother repeated mournfully, "Alas ! is there 
no guide for my son ? " 
3 



26 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

And there came in reply to her call a noble form, 
arrayed in richest robes of crimson and purple hues ; 
a diadem glittered above his brow, and his majestic 
mien and haughty step well beseemed one clad in so 
much grandeur. Yet, spite of his lofty bearing, there 
was much of fascination in his tones, as he said to 
the boy, "My name is Ambition. Accept me as thy 
guide, for I can direct thy steps in the path which leads 
to Happiness. The way is toilsome, for thy steps must 
be ever ascending; yet there is a joy in the upward 
progress, and a noble pleasure awaits thee when thou 
shalt stand above thy fellows on yonder heights ; and 
amidst the brilliant lights which play around their sum- 
mits, there are glorious forms whose task is ever to 
minister to those who gain that envied station. Fame 
and Happiness, twin-sisters, there make their habita- 
tions, and nowhere else can they ever be found." 

The boy's heart was stirred within him at the beguil- 
ing words of his visitant, and he looked upward to the 
hills which Ambition had pointed out as the abodes of 
Fame and Happiness ; and the lurid, flickering hght was 
so dazzling to his young eyes, that he saw not how 
shadowy were the forms which he had been assured 
were those whom he should ever seek. 

Yet ere he started upon his weary ascent, there came 
to him another form. Cheerful and placid was the 
expression of her countenance, and the serene light 
which beamed from her clear blue eyes, was well con- 
trasted with the brighter but restless fires which flashed 
from the dark orbs of Ambition. Gentle and retiring 
were her manners ; and there was little to charm in her 
person, arrayed in a plain brown robe, which bespoke 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 27 

frugality and mediocrity of station. She advanced 
calmly to the boy, and her voice was low and sweet, 
though her speech was plain, as she thus addressed 
him: — 

" My name is Contentment. I too am willing to be 
thy guide ; and though I may not present to thy view 
those attractions with which my rival would lure thee 
away, yet believe me when I assure thee, that I alone 
can conduct thee to Happiness. The path in Avhich I 
would lead, winds through a lowly vale ; and though 
to thy bedazzled eyes it may look gloomy now, (for 
the shadows of those dizzy heights hang darkly over 
it,) yet there are lights gleaming upward from the still 
waters, and a soft brightness resting upon the low 
recesses of the sheltered valley. If Fame be consid- 
ered the only person worthy thy regard, and the coro- 
net that she may place upon thy brows the only object 
to which thou art willing to devote thy energies, I 
must withdraw my proffered aid; but believe not the 
seducing words of yon false one, for Fame is not allied 
to Happiness, nor are their dwelling-places the same. 
The former may indeed be found upon that summit, 
but the latter dwells with every cottager who makes 
his home in that humble valley, and with every pil- 
grim who treads the shaded path which winds around 
it. Say then, wilt thou follow me? or wouldst thou 
rather become the victim of that seducer?" 

The boy was young, and the splendid attire of Am- 
bition was far more pleasing to his eyes than the plain 
garments of Contentment ; and the path, to which he 
pointed, seemed like a bright ascent, leading upward 
to a scene of glittering illumination ; but the over- 



28 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

hanging heights which enclosed the low vale of Con- 
tentment, appeared to him to surround a scene of 
mingled poverty and gloom. 

So he took hold of the skirts of Ambition's robe, 
and declared his readiness to pass the day in following 
his footsteps ; yet he dared not look back for his 
mother's blessing, for he felt that she would have 
smiled far more sweetly upon him, had he accepted 
the guidance of his gentler monitor. But when Con- 
tentment saw that he slighted her offers, and noticed 
not the hand which she had kindly extended towards 
him, she meekly turned away. * * The sun was 
at the zenith. The mother's eyes were still upon her 
child, but it was with a fearful joy that she marked 
the upward path he trod, and saw that in basking 
amidst the bright rays which poured upon his path, he 
heeded not the dark clouds which were rolling up from 
the horizon. And she saw, too, that the gay smile 
which illuminated his face when he commenced his 
journey, had vanished away. His countenance was 
pale and haggard, his eyes wildly sending forth their 
bright, restless glances, and his footsteps growing fainter 
and more uncertain. Ever and anon would he cast an 
anxious glance at the brow of the hill he was ascend- 
ing, thinking to behold upon it the splendid temple to 
which he had ever directed his steps, and hoping that 
there he might at length recruit his exhausted frame, 
and enjoy the reward of his hours of toil. But height 
peeped over height, hill frowned above hill, -Alps on 
Alps continually arose,' until the anxious expression of 
his own countenance had changed to one of settled 
gloom. He had outstripped many of his competitors, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 29 

and had obeyed the low, selfish suggestions of his 
guide, who bade him thrust his rivals from the path, 
or hurl them down the summit, until his course had 
become one of reckless madness. Desiring to stand 
alone upon that lofty pinnacle, he had endeavored to 
bring upon all around him disappointment and destruc- 
tion. His bosom had become a dark fountain, sending 
forth its black stream of unholy desires and impious 
machinations. None ever smiled upon him now, and 
the voice of sympathy never fell upon his ears. There 
were no friends to aid him, no loved ones to cheer him. 

Yet he was not alone. Wherever he went, he found 
that others had been there before him. Whatever 
summit he might ascend was overlooked by a loftier 
one, upon whose brow stood those who had attained a 
higher elevation. Yet Happiness was never visible, 
and the clouds, which had previously appeared to him 
refulgent with brightness, were bursting in tempestu- 
ous fury upon his head, and casting their black shadows 
upon the pathway before him. 

He paused, and cast his eyes downward upon the 
low valley, in which he had been invited to pass the 
day. And he saw that the storms passed high above 
it, and though the bright sun-beams never dazzled it 
with radiant light, yet a softer brightness ever illumi- 
nated its bosom. He saw, also, that the dwellers there 
were a happy band, with cheerful smiles and joyful 
songs, and that they were truly wealthy, for what they 
had was all they wished. And he vainly regretted that 
he had not chosen the better part. 

"I can never dwell there now," he bitterly repeated, 
"but happiness may yet be found upon some loftier 
3* 



30 SHELLS FROM THE SARAND 

height." Again he turned to resume his toilsome pro- 
gress, but his feeble limbs refused their aid ; darkness 
came thickly down from the misty hills; his frame 
was sinking, and his mind despairing. He turned 
away from Ambition, who would still have urged him 
on, and sank down in utter despondency. 

Night was coming. Quickly had passed that day, 
for the sun had early hasted to his going down. The 
watchful mother had hastened to her son, and she 
vainly endeavored to arouse his drooping spirits, and 
cheer his sunken heart. But it was too late. The 
shades of evening were gathering fast around him, and 
the sun was sinking below the horizon. 

''Will no one aid me?" said the wretched mother; 
and there came, in reply to her call, a lovely form 
arrayed in robes of snowy whiteness. 

"My name," said she, ''is Religion. Mine is the 
task to heal the broken-hearted, to give joy to the chil- 
dren of affliction, and to bestow upon them the spirit 
of rejoicing, for the garment of heaviness. 

And she turned her angelic face towards that child 
of disappointment and despair, and sweetly smiled 
upon him ; and with a voice whose every tone was 
heavenly melody, she poured into his listening ears the 
words of consolation. "Oh," said he, "that I had 
earlier received thine instructions, and enjoyed the 
delights of thy presence." 

"My dwelling," she replied, "is in the valley below, 
and seldom do I find a votary upon the heights. Hadst 
thou followed Contentment, thou wouldst also have 
found me, and my sister. Happiness, whom thou hast 
vainly sought upon these dizzy summits." 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. ^1 

''But," said he, "must thy votaries ever continue in 
the low vaUies ? Is there no upward path, but that 
which Ambition has chosen, to lure his followers to 
destruction?" 

And Religion replied, "Thou hast said well, in that 
thou thinkest an upward progress preferable to a con- 
stant sojourn in the low vallies. There is an upward 
path, and it leads to mansions of eternal bliss ; there 
is an exercise for the longing spirit, and it is to serve 
the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy mind, 
and with all thy strength ; and there is a joy in this 
which lasteth evermore. The day is now past, and 
the night cometh ; but that will also flee away, and a 
brighter morning shall arouse thee to renovated strength, 
to purer pleasures, to nobler and greater capacities of 
enjoyment, and to an entrance to that mansion which 
is the everlasting abode of Happiness, 'a house not 
made with hands, eternal in the heavens.'" 

The bright glow which irradiated the countenance 
of Rehgion was reflected upon that of her listener ; a 
heavenly smile passed over his worn features ; a bril- 
liant light beamed from his sunken eyes ; he pressed 
his mother's hand in his, then gently laid his head upon 
her breast, "and so he fell asleep." 



32 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



ANCIENT POETRY. 

I LOVE old poetry, with its obscure expressions, its 
obsolete words, its quaint measure, and rough rhyme. 
1 love it with all these, perhaps for these. It is because 
it is different from modern poetry, and not that I think 
it better, that it at times affords me pleasure. But 
when one has been indulging in the perusal of the 
smooth and elegant productions of later poets, there is 
at least the charm of variety in turning to those of 
ancient bards. This is pleasant to those who love to 
exercise the imagination — for if we would understand 
our author, we must go back into olden times ; we 
must look upon the countenances and enter into the 
feelings of a long-buried generation ; we must remem- 
ber that much of what we know was then unknown, 
and that thoughts and sentiments Which may have 
become common to us. glowed upon these pages in all 
their primal beauty. Much of which our writer may 
speak, has now been wholly lost ; and difficult, if not 
impossible to be understood, are many of his expres- 
sions and allusions. 

But these difficulties present a ''delightful task" to 
those who would rather push on through a tangled 
labyrinth, than to walk with ease in a smooth-rolled 
path. Their self-esteem is gratified by being able to 
discover beauty where other eyes behold but deformity ; 
and a brilliant thought or glowing image is rendered to 
them still more beautiful, because it shines through a 
veil impenetrable to other eyes. They are proud of 
their ability to perceive this beauty, or understand that 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 38 

oddity, and they care not for the mental labor which 
they have been obliged to perform. 

When I turn from modern poetry to that of other 
days, it is like leaving bright flowery fields to enter 
a dark tangled forest. The air is cooler, but damp 
and heavy. A sombre gloom reigns throughout, occa- 
sionally broken by flitting sunbeams, which force their 
way through the thick branches which meet above me, 
and dance and glitter upon the dark underwood below. 
They are strongly contrasted with the deep shade 
around, and my eye rests upon them with more pleas- 
ure than it did upon the broad flood of sunshine which 
bathes the fields without. My searching eye at times 
discovers some lonely flower, half hidden by decayed 
leaves and withered moss, yet blooming there in unde- 
caying beauty. There are briers and thistles and 
creeping vines around, but I heedlessly press on, for I 
must enjoy the fragrance and examine the structure of 
these unobtrusive plants. I enjoy all this for awhile, 
but at length I am chilled and weary, and glad to 
leave the forest for a less fatiguing resort. 

But there is one kind of old poetry to which these 
remarks may not apply — I mean the Poetry of the 
Bible. And how much is there of this ! There are 
songs of joy and praise, and those of woe and lamen- 
tation ; there are odes and elegies ; there are prophecies 
and histories; there are descriptions of nature and 
narratives of persons, and all written with a fervency 
of feeling which embodies itself in lofty and glowing 
imagery. And what is this but poetry ? yet not that 
which can be compared to some dark, mazy forest, but 
rather like a sacred grove, such as ''were God's first 



34 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

« 

temples." There is no gloom around, neither is there 
bright sunshine ; but a calm and holy light pervades 
the place. The tall trees meet not above me, but 
through their lofty boughs I can look up and see the 
blue heavens bending their perfect dome above the 
hallowed spot, while now and then some fleecy cloud 
sails slowly on, as though it loved to shadow the still 
loveliness beneath. There are soft winds murmuring 
through the high tree-tops, and their gentle sound is 
like a voice from the spirit-land. There are delicate 
white flowers waving upon their slight stems, and their 
sweet fragrance is like the breath of heaven. I feel 
that I am in God's temple. The Spirit above waits for 
the sacrifice. I can now erect an altar, and every self- 
ish, worldly thought should be laid thereon, a free-will 
offering. But when the rite is over, and I leave this 
consecrated spot for the busy path of life, I should 
strive to bear into the world a heart baptised in the 
love of beauty, holiness and truth. 

I have spoken figuratively — perhaps too much so to 
please the pure and simple tastes of some — but He 
who made my soul, and placed it in the body which it 
animates, implanted within it a love of the beautiful 
in literature, and this love was first awakened and then 
cherished by the words of Holy Writ. 

I have, when a child, read my Bible, from its ear- 
liest book to its latest. I have gone in imagination to 
the plains of Uz, and have there beheld the pastoral 
prince in all his pride and glory. I have marked him, 
too, when in the depth of his sorrow he sat speechless 
upon the ground for seven days and seven nights ; but 
when he opened his mouth and spake, I listened with 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 35' 

eagerness to the heart-stirring words and startHng 
imagery which poured forth from his burning hps ! 
But my heart has thrilled with a dehghtful awe when 
" the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind." and I 
listened to words of more sublimity than uninspired 
man may ever conceive. 

I have gone, too, with the beloved disciple into that 
lonely isle where he beheld those things of which he 
was commanded to write. My imagination dared not 
conceive of the glorious throne, and of Him who sat 
upon it ; but I have looked with a throbbing delight 
upon the New Jerusalem coming down from heaven 
in her clear crystal light, ''as a bride adorned for her 
husband." I have gazed upon the golden city, flash- 
ing like " transparent glass," and have marked its 
pearly gates and walls of every precious stone. In 
imagination have I looked upon all this, till my young 
spirit longed to leave its earthly tenement and soar 
upward to that brighter world, where there is no need 
of sun or moon, for " the Lamb is the light thereof" 

I have since read my Bible for better purposes than 
the indulgence of taste. There must I go to learn my 
duty to God and my neighbor. There should I look 
for precepts to direct the life that now is, and for the 
promise of that which is to come ; yet seldom do I 
close that sacred volume without a feeling of thank- 
fulness, that the truths of our holy religion have been 
so often presented in forms, which not only reason and 
conscience will approve, but also which the fancy can 
admire and the heart must love. 



36 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



GLORY OF LIGHT. 

Beautiful to the believer is every work of Nature. 
To him there is a lovehness and meaning in the hum- 
blest herb, and smallest insect ; and he knows that 
whenever beauty meets the eye, then should instruc- 
tion go to the heart. 

But the object which more than all others combines 
both beauty and instruction, is light. Beautiful is 
light when it shines from the dazzling sun, and beau- 
tiful when it beams from the milder moon ; beautiful 
when it flashes from some dark thunder-cloud, and 
beautiful when it twinkles from myriads of evening 
stars. Beautiful is it when concentred in noonday 
clouds, and beautiful when, with scarlet and purple, 
it curtains the sunset sky. Beautiful is it in the 
North, when its varying colors stream upward in the 
Borealis, and beautiful in the South, when it reddens 
the midnight sky from seas of prairie fire. 

Beautiful is light when it crests the ocean-billow, 
and beautiful when it dances on the rippling streamlet ; 
beautiful when it lies like a silvery robe on the placid 
lake, and beautiful when it turns the foaming surge to 
fretted gold. Beautiful is light when it flashes from 
the maiden's eye, and beautiful when it sparkles from 
the diamond on her hand. 

Beautiful are the varying hues of light, as they flit 
and change on the water-bubble, and beautiful are 
they when marshalled in the rainbow. Beautiful is 
the light which glistens from millions of points and 
pinnacles in Arctic glaciers, and beautiful when it 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 37 

rests like a glorious crown on Alpine mountains ; and 
beautiful also is light, when it breaks through forest- 
boughs, and holds wild play with the flitting shadow. 

Beautiful are the coruscations of light in the labora- 
tory of th? chemist, and beautiful is the fire-side light 
when friends around it meet in that dearest of all 
earth's cherished spots, in "Home, sweet home." 
Beautifid is light to the poor man, when it comes 
through the little lattice to brighten his humble cot, 
and beautiful to the prince, when it streams through 
gilded casements to illuminate his palace. 

Beautiful is the light of morn to the Persian wor- 
shipper, and beautiful is it after the night-storm to the 
shipwrecked mariner. Beautiful is it to the child of 
guilt or afliiction, to whom the night can bring no 
quiet rest ; and beautiful, after their undisturbed sleep, 
is it to all beasts, birds and insects, whose morning 
voices unite in one loud thanksgiving for the light. 

Beautiful is light to the dmigeon prisoner, when, 
after years of darkened life, he stands beneath the 
sun's glad beams ; and beautiful is it to the invalid, 
when from the couch of sickness he emerges into the 
bright ocean above and around him, and from the 
depths of his grateful heart he blesses God for the 
light. 

Beautiful also is light to the timid child, when, after 
awaking in darkness, his screams of terror have 
brought some taper, and as though he knew that his 
guardian angel had come to watch his slumbers, he 
lays his cheek upon his little hand, even shuts his 
eyes upon the wished-for object, and sweetly sleeps — 
for it is light. 

4 



38 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND - 

Beautiful is light when it paints the tulip with gold, 
the rose with crimson, and the grass- grown earth with 
living green. Yes, beautiful is every light, of morn, 
of eve, of midnight and of noon, and grateful for all 
of beauty should we be to Him who is the " Father of 
Hghts." 

Beautiful is light in its mystery ; and is it not in- 
structive too? Though to the Christian, earth's mean- 
est object has its spiritual teachings, yet here is a high 
and holy lesson for the Atheist. Ask him why he be- 
lieves there is no God, and his reply will be, "Because 
I cannot see him, I cannot feel him, I cannot touch him, 
nor comprehend how he exists." Tell him to look 
upon Nature, for there he must see the evidence of a 
Creator's hand; but bid him, above all, to contemplate 
the light. He can see that, too — he can calculate the 
rapidity of its motion, and the laws of reflection and 
refraction by which it is governed ; he sees it, he believes 
in it, he knows it exists ; yet he cannot touch it, he 
cannot feel it, he cannot tell of what it is made, nor 
how it exists. He can fill his chamber with it, yet he 
cannot draw his shutters and say, -'I have shut it in," 
for it eludes his efforts, though he can never tell how. 

The light has its lessons for us all ; and so indispen- 
sable is it as a medium of instruction, that it has 
become but another name for knowledge, and its ab- 
sence for ignorance. Though some have lived with- 
out ever beholding its brightness, yet what they knew 
was learned from those who were blessed with sight; 
and as we can form no idea of beauty without it, 
neither can we think of knowledge entirely separated 
from it. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 39 

Ask the poet what single object affords him the most 
illustrations of various truths, and he says, " It is the 
light." Ask the painter what most engages his atten- 
tion, and elicits his skill, when he transfers to canvass 
the lovely scenes of nature, and he, too, answers, ''The 
light." Ask the natural philosopher upon what subject 
he dwells with most pleasure, in his lectures of instruc- 
tion, and he answers, "It is light." Ask the rhetorician 
what sentence in our language is most sublimely beau- 
tiful, and his reply will be, "And God said, 'Let there 
be light,' and there was light." And why so sublime 
and beautiful? Because though we know that the 
earth was gradually formed thus glorious and perfect, 
yet in those few words is conveyed the idea of an 
instantaneous springing into life and beauty. 

liisten to the missionary, as he depicts the woes of 
heathen lands; and he says, "You must send them 
light." Hear the philanthropist, as he tells of the 
ignorance and affliction of the poor and neglected of 
our own land, and his prayer will be that they may 
have light. Listen also to the controversialist, as he 
argues with his bigoted opponent : and how earnestly 
he wishes that he may have light. 

When the Hebrew poet endeavored to portray the 
beauty and majesty of God, he said, "Who covereth 
himself with light as with a garment;" and through- 
out the Scriptures, how many ideas of happiness, 
beauty and knowledge are symbolized by the word 
"hght"! On the contrary, all ignorance, error, deso- 
lation and misery are symbolized by darkness. 

Our Saviour used many similes to shadow forth the 
glory, knowledge, holiness and happiness which were 



40 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

to result from his mission ; but never could the truth 
have been more powerfully conveyed to his listeners, 
than when he said, ''I am the light of the world." 

I had thought of endeavoring to portray a world 
without light ; but this has been already done with 
thrilling distinctness by him who wrote the "Dream of 
Darkness." No, never were so much of terror, selfish- 
ness, agony and woe, depicted in one scene, as in that 
when 

'* all hearts 
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light." 

In our visions of the spirit-v/orld, we think not of 
sun, moon, stars, oceans, trees, flowers or streamlets; 
we divest ourselves of all things which have here been 
sources of beauty and knowledge — of all, save one; for 
all our ideas of its glory, felicity, purity, and never- 
failing sources of instruction, are enhanced by the 
sweet reflection, that there it ivill he always light. 



A WEAVER'S REVERIE. 

It was a sunny day, and I left, for a few moments, 
the circumscribed spot which is my appointed place of 
labor, that I might look from an adjoining window 
upon the bright loveliness of nature. Yes, it was a 
sunny day ; but for many days before, the sky had 
been veiled in gloomy clouds ; and joyous indeed was 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 41 

it to look up into that blue vault, and see it unobscured 
by its sombre screen ; and my heart fluttered like a 
prisoned bird, with its painful longings for an uncheck- 
ed flight amidst the beautiful creation around me. 

'' Why is it," said a friend to me one day, " that the 
factory girls write so much about the beauties of na- 
ture?" 

Oh ! why is it, (thought 1, when the query after- 
wards recurred to me,) why is it that visions of thrilling 
loveliness so often bless the sightless orbs of those 
whose eyes have once been blessed with the power of 
vision 1 

Why is it that the delirious dreams of the famine- 
stricken, are of tables loaded with the richest viands, 
or groves, whose pendent boughs droop with their 
delicious burdens of luscious fruit? 

Why is it that haunting tones of sweetest melody 
come to us in the deep stillness of midnight, when the 
thousand tongues of man and nature are for a season 
mute ? 

Why is it that the desert-traveller looks forwa d 
upon the burning, boundless waste, and sees pictured 
before his aching eyes, some verdant oasis, with its 
murmuring streams, its gushing founts, and shadowy 
groves — but as he presses on with faltering step, the 
bright mirage recedes, until he lies down to die of 
weariness upon the scorching sands, with that isle of 
loveliness before him ? 

Oh tell me why is this, and I will tell why the fac- 
tory girl sits in the hour of meditation and thinks, not 
of the crowded, clattering mill, nor of the noisy tene- 
ment which is her home, nor of the thronged and busy 
4* 



42 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Street which she may sometimes tread ; but of the still 
and lovely scenes which, in by-gone hours, have sent 
their pure and elevating influence with a thrilling sweep 
across the strings of the spirit-harp, and then awakened 
its sweetest, loftiest notes; and ever, as she sits in 
silence and seclusion, endeavoring to draAV from that 
many-toned instrument a strain which may be meet 
for another's ear, that music comes to the eager listener 
like the sound with which the sea-shell echoes the roar 
of what was once its watery home. All her best and 
holiest thoughts are linked with those bright pictures 
which called them forth, and when she would embody 
them for the instruction of others, she does it by a 
delineation of those scenes which have quickened and 
purified her own mind. 

It was this love of nature's beauties, and a yearning 
for the pure, hallowed feelings which those beauties 
had been wont to call up from their hidden springs in 
the depths of the soul, to bear away upon their swell- 
ing tide the corruption which had gathered, and I 
feared might settle there — it was this love, and long- 
ing, and fear, which made my heart throb quickly, as 
I sent forth a momentary glance from the factory win- 
dow. 

I think I said there was a cloudless sky ; but it was 
not so. It was clear, and soft, and its beauteous hue 
was of '"the hyacinth's deep blue" — but there was 
one bright, solitary cloud, far up in the cerulean vault; 
and I wished that it might for once be in my power to 
lie down upon that white, fleecy couch, and there, 
away and alone, to dream of all things holy, calm, and 
beautiful. Methought that better feelings, and clearer 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 43 

thoughts than are often wont to visit me, would there 
take undisturbed possession of my soul. 

And might I not be there, and send my unobstructed 
glance into the depths of ether above me, and forget, 
for a little while, that I had ever been a foolish, way- 
ward, guilty child of earth ? Could I not then cast 
aside the burden of error and sin which must ever 
depress me here, and with the maturity of woman- 
hood, feel also the innocence of infancy ? And with 
that sense of purity and perfection, there would neces- 
sarily be mingled a feeling of sweet, uncloying bliss — 
such as imagination may conceive, but which seldom 
pervades and sanctifies the earthly heart. Might I not 
look down from my aerial position, and view this little 
world, and its hills, valleys, plains and streamlets, and 
its thousands of busy inhabitants, and see how puerile 
and unsatisfactory it would look to one so totally dis- 
connected from it? Yes, there, upon that soft, snowy 
cloud could I sit, and gaze upon my native earth, and 
feel how empty and "vain are all things here below." 

But not motionless would I stay upon that aerial 
couch. I would call upon the breezes to waft me away 
over the broad, blue ocean, and with nought but the 
clear, bright ether above me, have nought but a bound- 
less, sparkling, watery expanse below me. Then I 
would look down upon the vessels pursuing their dif- 
ferent courses across the bright waters; and as I 
watched their toilsome progress, I should feel how 
blessed a thing it is to be where no impediment of wind 
or wave might obstruct my onward way. 

But when the beams of a mid-day sun had ceased 
to flash from the foaming sea, I should wish my cloud 



44 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

to bear away to the western sky, and, divesting itself 
of its snowy whiteness, stand there, arrayed in the 
brilhant hues of the setting sun. Yes, well should I 
love to be stationed there, and see it catch those part- 
ing rays, and, transforming them to dyes of purple and 
crimson, shine forth in its evening vestment, with a 
border of brightest gold. Then could I watch the king 
of day as he sinks into his watery bed, leaving behind 
a line of crimson light to mark the path which led him 
to his place of rest. 

Yet once, O only once, should I love to have that 
cloud pass on — on — on — among the myriads of stars; 
and leaving them all behind, go far away into the 
empty void of space beyond. I should love, for once, 
to be alone. Alone ! where could I be alone ? But I 
would fain be where there is no other save the Invisi- 
ble, and there, where not even one distant star should 
send its'/eeble rays to tell of a universe beyond, there 
would I rest upon that soft, light cloud, and with a 
fathomless depth below me, and a measureless waste 
above and around me, there would I 

''Your looms are going without filling," said a loud 
voice at my elbow ; so I ran as fast as possible, and 
changed my shuttles. 



JOANNE OF ARC. 



When, in the perusal of history, I meet with the 
names of females whom circumstances, or their own 
inclinations, have brought thus openly before the pub- 
lic eye, I can seldom repress the desire to know more 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 45 

of them. Was it choice, or necessity, which led them 
to the battle-field, or comicil-hall ? Had the woman's 
heart been crushed within their breasts'? or did it 
struggle Avitli the sterner feelings which had then found 
entrance there ] Were they recreant to their own sex? 
or were the deeds which claim the historian's notice 
but the necessary results of the situations in which 
they had been placed ? 

These are questions which I often ask, and yet I 
love not in old and musty records to meet with names 
which long ere this should have perished with the 
hearts upon which love had written them ; for happier 
may be woman, when in some faithful heart she has 
been " shrined a queen," than when upon some power- 
ful throne she sits with an untrembling form and an 
unquailing eye, to receive the homage, and command 
the services of loyal thousands. I love not to read of 
woman transformed, in all save outward lineaments, 
into one of the sterner sex; and when I see, in the 
memorials of the past, that this has apparently been 
done, I would fain overleap the barriers of by-gone 
time, and know how it has been effected. Imagina- 
tion goes back to the scenes which must have been 
witnessed then, and, perhaps unaided, portrays the mi- 
nuter features of the sketch, of which history has 
preserved merely the outlines. 

But I sometimes read of woman, when I would not 
know more of the places where she has rendered her- 
self conspicuous ; when there is something so noble 
and so briglit in the character I have given her, that I 
fear a better knowledge of trivial incidents might break 
the spell which leads me to love and admire her; 



46 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

where, perhaps, the picture which my fancy has paint- 
ed, glows in colors so brilhant, that a sketch by Truth 
would seem beside it but a sombre shadow. 

Joanne of Arc is one of those heroines of history, 
who cannot fail to excite an interest in all who love to 
contemplate the female character. From the gloom of 
that dark age when woman was but a plaything and 
a slave, she stands in bold relief, its most conspicuous 
personage. Not, indeed, as a queen, but as more than 
a queen, even the preserver of her nation's king; not 
as a conqueror, but as the savior of her country ; not 
as a man, urged in his proud career by mad ambition's 
stirring energies, but as a woman, guided in her bril- 
liant course by woman's noblest impulses ; so does she 
appear in that lofty station which for herself she won. 
.Though high and dazzling was the eminence to 
which she rose, yet " 't was not thus, oh, 't was not 
thus, her dwelling-place was found." Low in the 
vale of humble life was the maiden born and bred ; 
and thick as is the veil which time and distance have 
thrown over every passage of her life, yet that which 
rests upon her early days is most impenetrable. And 
much room is there here for the interested inquirer, and 
Imagination may revel almost unchecked amid the 
slight revelations of history. 

Joanne is a heroine — a woman of mighty power — 
wearing herself the habiliments of man, and guiding 
armies to battle and to victory; yet never to my eye is 
"the warrior maid" aught but a woman. The ruling 
passion, the spirit which nerved her arm, illumed her 
eye, and buoyed her heart, was woman's faith. Ay, 
it was poiver ; and call it what ye may — say it was 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 47 

enthusiasm, fanaticism, madness — or call it, if ye will, 
what those did name it who burned Joanne at the 
stake, still it was power, the power of woman's firm, 
undoubting faith. 

I should love to go back into Joanne's humble home, 
that home Avhich the historian has thought so little 
worthy of his notice ; and in imagination I must go 
there, even to the very cradle of her infancy, and know 
of all those influences which wrought her mind to that 
fearful pitch of wild enthusiasm, when she declared 
herself the inspired agent of the Almighty. 

Slowly and gradually was the spirit trained to an 
act like this; for though, like the volcano's fire, its 
instantaneous bursting forth was preceded by no her- 
ald of its coming, yet Joanne of Axe was the same 
Joanne ere she was Maid of Orleans ; the same high- 
souled, pure and imaginative being, the creature of 
holy impulses, and conscious of superior energies. It 
must have been so ; a superior rnind may burst ivpon 
the world^ hut never upon itself ; there must be a feel- 
ing of sympathy with the noble and the gifted, a 
knowledge of innate though slumbering powers. The 
neglected eaglet may lie in its mountain nest, long 
after the pinion is fledged; but it will fix its unquail- 
ing eye upon the dazzling sun, and feel a consciousness 
of strength in the untried wing; but let the mother- 
bird once call it forth, and far away it will soar into 
the deep blue heavens, or bathe and revel amidst tem- 
pest-clouds ; and henceforth the eyrie is but a resting 
place. 

As the diamond is formed, brilliant and priceless, in 
the dark bowels of the earth, even so, in the gloom of 



48 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

poverty, obscurity and toil, was formed the mind of 
Joanne of Arc. Circumstances were but the jeweller's 
cutting, which placed it where it might more readily 
receive the rays of light, and flash them forth with 
greater brilliancy. 

I have said, that I must in imagination go back to 
the infancy of Joanne, and note the incidents which 
shed their silent, hallowing influence upon her soul, 
until she stands forth an inspired being, albeit inspired 
by nought but her own imagination. 

The basis of Joanne's character is religious enthu- 
siasm: this is the substratum, the foundation of all 
that wild and mighty power which made Aer, the 
peasant girl, the savior of her country. But the flame 
must have been early fed ; it was not merely an ele- 
mentary portion of her nature, but it was one which 
was cherished in infancy, in childhood and in youth, 
until it became the master-passion of her being. 

Joanne, the child of the humble and the lowly, is 
also the daughter of the fervently religious. The light 
of faith and hope illumes their little cot ; and rever- 
ence for all that is good and true, and a trust which 
admits no shade of fear or doubt, is early taught the 
gentle girl. Though "faith in God's own promises" 
was mingled with a superstitious awe of those to whom 
all were indebted for a knowledge of the truth ; though 
priestly craft had united the wild and false with the 
pure light of the gospel ; and though Joanne's religion 
was mingled with delusion and error, still it comprised 
all that is fervent, and pure, and truthful, in the female 
heart. The first words her infant lips are taught to 
utter, are those of prayer; prayer, mayhap, to Saints 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 49 

or Yirgin ; but still to her then^ and in all after time, 
the aspirations of a spirit which deligiits in commun- 
ion with the invisible. 

She grows older, and still, amid ignorance, and pov- 
erty, and toil, the spirit gains new light and fervor. 
With a mind alive to everything that is high and holy, 
she goes forth into a dark and sinful world, dependent 
upon her daily toil for daily bread. She lives among 
the thoughtless and the vile ; but like that plant which 
opens to nought but light and air, and shrinks from all 
other contact, so her mind, amid the corruptions of the 
world, is shut to all that is base and sinful, though 
open and sensitive to that which is pure and noble. 

"Joanne," says the historian, " was a tender of sta- 
bles at a village inn." Such is her outward life ; but 
there is for her another life, a life within that life. 
While the hands perform low, menial service, the soul, 
untrammelled, is away, and revelling amid its own 
creations of beauty and of bliss. She is silent and 
abstracted ; always alone among her fellows, for among 
them all she sees no kindred spirit ; she finds none 
who can touch the chords within her heart, or respond 
to their melody when she herself would sweep its harp- 
strings. 

Joanne has no friends ; far less does she ever think 
of earthly lovers ; and who would love her^ the wild 
and strange Joanne! thought, perhaps, the gloomy, 
dull, and silent one. But that soul, whose very es- 
sence is fervent zeal and glowing passion, sends forth 
in secrecy and silence its burning love upon the uncon- 
scious things of earth. She talks to the flowers, and 
the stars, and the changing clouds; and their voiceless 



60 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

answers come back to her soul at morn, and noon, and 
Stilly night. Yes, Joanne loves to go forth in the dark- 
ness of eve, and sit 

" Beneath the radiant stars, still burning as they roll, 
And sending down their prophecies into her fervent soul." 

But better even than this does she love to go into some 
high cathedral, where the "dim religious light" comes 
faintly through the painted windows ; and when the 
priests chant vesper hymns, and burning incense goes 
upward from the sacred altar, and when the solemn 
strains and the fragrant vapor dissolve and die away 
in the distant aisles and lofty dome, she kneels upon 
the marble floor, and in ecstatic worship sends forth 
the tribute of a glowing heart. 

And when at night she lies down upon her rude pal- 
let, she dreams that she is with those bright and happy 
beings with whom her fancy has peopled heaven. She 
is there, among saints and angels, and even permitted 
to hold high converse with the Mother of Jesus. 

Yes, Joanne is a dreamer ; and she dreams not only 
in the night but in the day ; whether at Avork or at 
rest, alone or among her fellow-men, there are angel- 
voices near, and spirit-wings are hovering around her, 
and visions of all that is pure, and bright, and beau- 
tiful, come to the mind of the lowly girl. She finds 
that she is a favored one ; she feels that those about 
her are not gifted as she has been ; she knows that 
their thoughts are not as her thoughts ; and then the 
spirit questions ; Why is it thus that she should be per- 
mitted communings with unearthly ones ? Why was 
this ardent, aspiring mind bestowed upon Aer, one of 
earth's meanest ones, shackled by bonds of penury, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 51 

toil, and ignorance of all that the world calls high and 
gifted? Day after day goes by, night after night 
wears on, and still these queries will arise, and still 
they are unanswered. 

At length the affairs of busy life, those which to 
Joanne have heretofore been of but little moment, begin 
to awaken even her interest. Hitherto, absorbed in her 
own bright fancies, she has mingled in the scenes around 
her like one who walketh in his sleep. They have 
been too tame and insipid to arouse her energies, or 
excite her interest ; but now there is a thrilling power 
in the tidings which daily meet her ears. All hearts 
are stirred, but none now throb like hers ; her country 
is invaded, her king an exile from his throne ; and at 
length the conquerors, unopposed, are quietly boasting 
of their triumphs on the very soil they have polluted. 
And shall it be thus 7 Shall the victor revel and tri- 
umph in her own loved France 7 Shall her coimtry 
thus tamely submit to wear the foreign yoke 7 And 
Joanne says, No ! She feels the power to arouse, to 
quicken and to guide. 

None now may tell whether it was in fancies of the 
day, or visions of the night, that the thought first 
came, like some lightning flash, upon her mind, that it 
was for this that powers unknown to others had been 
vouchsafed to her; and that for this, even new ener- 
gies should now be given. But the idea once received 
is not abandoned ; she cherishes it, and broods upon it, 
till it has mingled with every thought of day and 
night. If doubts at first arise, they are not harbored, 
and at length they vanish away. 

" Her spirit shadowed forth a dream till it became a creed." 



52 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

All that she sees, and all that she hears — the words to 
which she eagerly listens by day, and the spirit-whis- 
pers which come to her at night — they all assure her 
of this, that she is the appointed one. All other 
thoughts and feelings now crystallize in this grand 
scheme ; and as the cloud grows dark upon her 
country's sky, her faith grows surer and more bright. 
Her countrymen have ceased to resist, have almost 
ceased to hope ; but she alone, in her fervent joy, has 
" looked beyond the present clouds, and seen the light 
beyond." The spoiler shall yet be vanquished, and 
she will do it ; her country shall yet be saved, and she 
will save it ; her unanointed king shall yet sit on his 
throne, and '^ Charles shall be crowned at Rheims." 
Such is her mission, and she goes forth in her own ar- 
dent faith to its accomplishment. 

And did those who first admitted the claims of 
Joanne as an inspired leader, themselves believe that 
she was an agent of the Almighty ? None can now 
tell how much the superstition of their faith, mingling 
with the commanding influence of a mind firm in its 
own conviction of supernatural guidance, influenced 
those haughty ones, as they listened to the counsels, 
and obeyed the mandates, of the peasant girl. Per- 
haps they saw that she was their last hope, a frail 
reed upon which they might lean, yet one that might 
not break. Her zeal and faith might be an instrument 
to effect the end which she had declared herself des- 
tined to accomplish. Worldly policy and religious 
credulity might mingle in their admission of her 
claims ; but however this might be, the peasant girl 
of Arc soon rides at her monarch's side, with helmet 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 63 

on her head, and armor on her frame, the time-hallowed 
sword girt to her side, and the consecrated banner in 
her hand ; and with the lightning of inspiration in her 
eye, and words of dauntless courage on her lips, she 
guides them on to battle and to victory. 

Ay, there she is, the low-born maid of Arc ! there, 
with the noble and the brave, amid the clangor of 
trumpets, the waving of banners, the tramp of the 
war-horse, and the shouts of warriors ; and there she 
is more at home than in those humble scenes in which 
she has been wont to bear a part. Now for once she 
is herself; now may she put forth all her hidden ener- 
gy, and with a mind which rises at each new demand 
upon its powers, she is gaining for herself a name even 
greater than that of queen. And now does the light 
beam brightly from her eye, and- the blood course 
quickly through her veins ; for her task is ended, her 
mission accomplished, her prophecy fulfilled, and 
" Charles is crowned at Rheims." 

This is the moment of Joanne's glory, — and what is 
before her now 7 To stand in courts, a favored and 
flattered one ? to revel in the soft luxuries and enervat- 
ing pleasures of a princely life ? Oh, this was not for 
one like her. To return to obscurity and loneliness, 
and there to let the over- wrought mind sink back with 
nought to occupy and support it, till it feeds and driv- 
els on the remembrance of the past, — this is what she 
would do : but there is for her what is better far, even 
the glorious death of a martyr. 

Little does Joanne deem, in her moment of triumph, 
that this is before her; but when she has seen her 
mission ended, and her king the anointed ruler of a 

' * 5* 



54 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

liberated people, the sacred sword and standard are 
cast aside ; and throwing herself at her monarch's feet, 
and watering them with tears of joy, she begs permis- 
sion to return to her humble home. She has now done 
all for which that power was bestowed ; her work has 
been accomplished, and she claims no longer the special 
commission of an inspired leader. But Dunois says, 
No ! The English are not yet entirely expelled the 
kingdom ; and the French general would still avail 
himself of that name, and that presence, which have in- 
fused new courage into his armies, and struck terror into 
their enemies. He knows that Joanne will no longer be 
sustained by the belief that she is an a gent of heaven ; 
but she will be with them, and her presence alone 
must benefit their cause. He would have her again 
assume the standard, sword and armor; he would 
have her still retain the title of "Messenger of God," 
though she believes that her mission goes no farther. 

It probably was not the first time, and it certainly 
was not the last, when woman's holiest feelings have 
been made the instruments of man's ambition, or 
agents for the completion of his designs. Joanne is 
now but a woman, poor, weak and yielding woman ; 
and overpowered by their entreaties, she consents to 
try again her influence. But the power of that faith 
is gone, the light of inspiration is no more given, and 
she is attacked, conquered, and delivered to her ene- 
mies. They place her in low dungeons, they bring 
her before tribunals ; they wring and torture that noble 
spirit, and endeavor to obtain from it a confession of 
imposture, or connivance with the " Evil One ; " but 
she still persists in the declaration that her claims to a 
heavenly guidance were but true. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 55 

Once only was she false to herself. Weary and dis- 
pirited ; deserted by her friends, and tormented by her 
foes, — she yields to their assertions, and admits that 
she did deceive her countrymen. Perhaps in that 
hour of trial and darkness, when all hope of deliver- 
ance from without, or from above, had died away, — 
when she saw herself powerless in the merciless hands 
of her enemies, the conviction might steal upon her 
own mind, that she had been self-deceived ; that phan- 
tasies of the brain had been received as visions from 
on high, — but though her confession was true in the 
abstract, yet in a confession of imposture Joanne was 
surely untrue to herself 

Still it avails her little : she is again remanded to the 
dungeon, and there awaits her doom. 

At length they bring her the panoply of war, the 
armored suit in which she went forth at her king's 
right hand to fight their battle-hosts. Her heart thrills, 
and her eye flashes, as she looks upon it — for it tells 
of glorious days. In her wild dream of the past, and 
all unwitting what she does, she dons once more 
those fatal garments, and they find her arrayed 
in the habiliments of war. It is enough for those who 
wished but an excuse to seal her fate, and the Maid of 
Orleans is condemned to die. 

They lead Joanne to the martyr-stake. Proudly 
and nobly goes she forth, for it is a fitting death for 
one like her. Once more the spirit may rouse its no- 
blest energies ; and with brightened eye, and firm, un- 
daunted step, she walks where banners wave, and 
trumpets sound, and martial hosts appear in proud 
array. And the sons of England weep as they see 



56 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

her, the calm and tearless one, come forth to meet her 
fate. They bind her to the stake ; they light the fire ; 
and upward borne on wreaths of soaring flame, the 
soul of the martyred maid ascends to heaven. 



ABBY'S YEAR IN LOWELL. 

CHAPTER I. 

'' Mr. Atkins, I say ! Husband, why can't you speak ? 
Do you hear what Abby says? " 

"Anything worth hearing?" was the responsive 
question of Mr. Atkins ; and he laid down the New 
Hampshire Patriot, and peered over his spectacles, 
with a look which seemed to say, that an event so un- 
common deserved particular attention. 

''Why, she says that she means to go to Lowell, 
and work in the factory." 

"Well, wife, let her go; " and Mr. Atkins took up 
the Patriot again. 

" But I do not see how I can spare her ; the spring 
cleaning is not done, nor the soap made, nor the boys' 
summer clothes ; and you say that you intend to board 
your own 'men-folks,' and keep two more cows than 
you did last year ; and Charley can scarcely go alone. 
I do not see how I can get along without her. " 

" But you say she does not assist you any about the 
house." 

" Well, husband, she might.'''' 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 57 

"Yes, she might do a great many thmgs which she 
does not think of doing ; and as I do not see that she 
means to be useful here, we will let her go to the 
factory." 

" Father, are you in earnest? may I go to Lowell? " 
said Abby ; and she raised her bright black eyes to her 
father's, with a look of exquisite delight. 

"Yes, Abby, if you will promise me one thing, and 
that is, that you will stay a whole year without visit- 
ing us, excepting in case of sickness, and that you will 
stay but one year." 

"I will promise anything, father, if you will only 
let me go ; for I thought you would say that I had bet- 
ter stay at home, and pick rocks, and weed the garden, 
and drop corn, and rake hay ; and I do not want to do 
such work any longer. May I go with the Slater girls 
next Tuesday ? for that is the day they have set for 
their return." 

" Yes, Abby, if you will remember that you are to 
stay a year, and only a year." 

Abby retired to rest that night with a heart flutter- 
ing with pleasure ; for, ever since the visit of the Slater 
girls, with new silk dresses, and Navarino bonnets 
trimmed with flowers, and lace veils, and gauze hand- 
kerchiefs, her head had been filled with visions of fine 
clothes ; and she thought if she could only go where 
she could dress like them, she should be completely 
happy. She was naturally very fond of dress, and 
often, while a little girl, had she sat on the grass bank 
by the road-side, watching the stage-coach which went 
daily by her father's retired dwelling; and when she saw 
the gay ribbons and smart shawls, which passed like a 



58 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

bright phantom before her wandering eyes, she had 
thought that when older she too would have such 
things ; and she looked forward to womanhood as to a 
state in which the chief pleasure must consist in wear- 
ing fine clothes. But as years passed over her, she be- 
came aware that this was a source from which she 
could never derive any enjoyment while she remained 
at home, for her father was neither able nor willing to 
gratify her in this respect ; and she had begun to fear 
that she must always wear the same brown cambric 
bonnet, and that the same calico gown would always 
be her '' go-to-meeting dress." And now what a bright 
picture had been formed by her ardent and unculti- 
vated imagination ! Yes, she would go to Lowell, and 
earn all that she possibly could, and spend those earn- 
ings in beautiful attire ; she would have silk dresses, — 
one of grass green, and another of cherry red, and 
another upon the color of which she would decide when 
she purchased it ; and she would have a new Navarino 
bonnet, far more beautiful than Judith Slater's ; and 
when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream of satin 
and lace, and her glowing fancy revelled all night in a 
vast and beautiful collection of milliners' finery. 

But very different were the dreams of Abby's 
mother ; and when she awoke the next morning, her 
first words to her husband were, " Mr. Atkins, were 
you serious last night when you told Abby that she 
might go to Lowell ? I thought at first that you were 
vexed because I interrupted you, and said it to stop the 
conversation." 

" Yes, wife, I was serious, and you did not interrupt 
me, for I had been listening to all that you and Abby 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 59 

were saying. She is a wild, thoughtless girl, and I 
hardly know what it is best to do with her ; but per- 
haps it will be as well to try an experiment, and let her 
think and act a little while for herself. I expect that 
she will spend all her earnings in fine clothes, but after 
she has done so she may see the folly of it ; at all 
events, she will be rather more likely to understand 
the value of money when she has been obliged to 
work for it. After she has had her own way for one 
year, she may possibly be willing to return home and 
become a little more steady, and be willing to devote her 
active energies (for she is a very capable girl) to house- 
hold duties, for hitherto her services have been principal- 
ly out of doors, where she is now too old to work. I am 
also willing that she should see a little of the world, and 
what is going on in it ; and I hope that if she receives 
no benefit, she will at least return to us uninjured." 

''O, husband, I have many fears for her," was the 
reply of Mrs. Atkins, " she is so very giddy and thought- 
less, and the Slater girls are as hare-brained as herself, 
and will lead her on in all sorts of folly. I wish you 
would tell her that she must stay at home." 

" I have made a promise," said Mr. Atkins, '' and I 
will keep it, and Abby, I trust, will keep hers.'''' 

Abby flew round in high spirits to make the neces- 
sary preparations for her departure, and her mother 
assisted her with a heavy heart. 

CHAPTER II. 

The evening before she left home her father called 
her to him, and, fixing upon her a calm, earnest, and 
almost mournful look, he said, "Abby, do you ever 



60 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

think?" Abby was subdued, and almost awed, by 
her father's look and manner. There was something 
unusual in it — something in his expression which was 
unexpected in him, but which reminded her of her 
teacher's look at the Sabbath school, when he was 
endeavoring to impress upon her mind some serious 
truth. "Yes, father," she at length replied, "I have 
thought a great deal lately about going to Lowell." 

'' But I do not believe, my child, that you have had 
one serious reflection upon the subject, and I fear that 
I have done wrong in consenting to let you go from 
home. If I were too poor to maintain you here, and 
had no employment about which you could make 
yourself useful, I should feel no self-reproach, and 
would let you go, trusting that all might yet be well ; 
but now I have done what I may at some future time 
severely repent of; and, Abby, if you do not wish to 
make me wretched, you will return to us a better, 
milder, and more thoughtful girl." 

That night Abby reflected more seriously than she 
had ever done in her life before. Her father's words, 
rendered more impressive by the look and tone with 
which they were delivered, had sunk into her heart as 
words of his had never done before. She had been 
surprised at his ready acquiescence in her wishes, but 
it had now a new meaning. She felt that she was 
about to be abandoned to herself, because her parents 
despaired of being able to do anything for her ; they 
thought her too wild, reckless, and untamable to be 
softened by aught but the stern lessons of experience. 
" I will surprise them," said she to herself; "I will show 
them that I have some reflection ; and after I come 
home, my father shall never ask me if I think. Yes, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 61 

I know what their fears are, and I will let them see 
that I can take care of myself, and as good care as 
they have ever taken of me. I know that I have not 
done as well as I might ha^ done ; but I will begin 
7ioWj and when I return, they shall see that / am a 
better, milder, and more thoughtful girl. And the 
money which I intended to spend in fine dress shall be 
put into the bank ; I will save it all, and my father 
shall see that I can earn money, and take care of it too. 
O, how diiferent I will be from what they think I am ; 
and how very glad it will make my father and mother 
to see that I am not so very bad, after all." 

New feelings and new ideas had begotten new reso- 
lutions, and Abby's dreams that night were of smiles 
from her mother, and words from her father, such as 
she had never received nor deserved. 

When she bade them farewell the next morning, she 
said nothing of the change which had taken place in 
her views and feelings, for she felt a slight degree of 
self-distrust in her own firmness of purpose. 

Abby's self-distrust was commendable and auspi- 
cious ; but she had a very promment development in 
that part of the head where phrenologists locate the 
organ of firmness ; and when she had once determined 
upon a thing she usually went through with it. — 
She had now resolved to pursue a course entirely dif- 
ferent from that which was expected of her, and as 
different from the one she had first marked out for her- 
self This was more difficult, on account of her strong 
propensity for dress, a love of which was freely grati- 
fied by her companions. But when Judith Slater 
pressed her to purchase this beautiful piece of silk, or 
that splendid piece of muslin, her constant reply was, 
6 



62 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

'' No, I have determined not to buy any such things, 
and I will keep my resolution." 

Before she came to Lowell, she wondered, in her 
simplicity, how people coi^d live where there were so 
many stores, and not spend all their money; and it 
now required all her firmness to resist being overcome 
by the tempting display of beauties which met her 
eyes whenever she promenaded the illuminated streets. 
It was hard to walk by the milliners' shops with an 
unwavering step ; and when she came to the confec- 
tionaries, she could not help stopping. But she did 
not yield to the temptation ; she did not spend her mo- 
ney in them. When she saw fine strawberries, she said 
to herself, " I can gather them in our own pasture next 
year; " when she looked upon the nice peaches, cherries, 
and plums, which stood in tempting array behind their 
crystal barriers, she said again, "I will do without 
them this summer ;" and when apples, pears and nuts 
were offered to her for sale, she thought that she would 
eat none of them till she went home. But she felt that 
the only safe place for her earnings was the savings 
bank, and there they were regularly deposited, that it 
might be out of her power to indulge in momentary 
whims. She gratified no feeling but a newly-awa- 
kened desire for mental improvement, and spent her 
leisure hours in reading useful books. 

Abby's year was one of perpetual self-contest and 
self-denial ; but it was by no means one of unmitiga- 
ted misery. The ruling desire of years was not to be 
conquered by the resolution of a moment ; but when 
the contest was over, there was for her the triumph 
of victory. If the battle was sometimes desperate, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 63 

there was so much more merit in being conqueror. 
One Sabbath was spent in tears, because Judith Slater 
did not wish her to attend their meeting with such a 
dowdy bonnet; and another fellow-boarder thought 
her gown must have been made in the "year one." 
The color mounted to her cheeks, and the lightning 
flashed from her eyes, when asked if she had '^just 
come doiun ;" and she felt as though she should be glad 
to be away from them all, when she heard their sly 
innuendoes about " bush-whackers." Still she remain- 
ed unshaken. "It is but for a year," said she to herself; 
"and the time and money that my father thought I should 
spend in folly, shall be devoted to a better purpose. " 

CHAPTER III. 

At the close of a pleasant April day, Mr. Atkins sat 
at his kitchen fireside, with Charley upon his knees. 

"Wife," said he to Mrs. Atkins, who was busily 
preparing the evening meal, "is it not a year since 
Abby left home?" 

"Why, husband, let me think: I always clean up the 
house thoroughly just before fast-day^ and I had not 
done it when Abby went away. I remember speak- 
ing to her about it, and telling her that it was wrong 
to leave me at such a busy time, and she said, ' Moth- 
er, I will be at home to do it all, next year.' Yes, it is 
a year, and I should not be surprised if she should 
come this week." 

" Perhaps she will not come at all," said Mr. Atkins, 
with a gloomy look ; " she has written us but few let- 
ters, and they have been very short and unsatisfactory. 



64 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

I suppose she has sense enough to know that no news 
is better than bad news, and having nothing pleasant 
to tell about herself, she thinks she will tell us nothing 
at all. But if I ever get her home again, I will keep 
her here. I assure you, her first year in Lowell shall 
also be her last." 

" Husband, I told you my fears, and if you had set 
up your authority, Abby would have been obliged to 
stay at home ; but perhaps she is doing pretty well. 
You know she is not accustomed to writing, and that 
may account for the few and short letters we have 
received ; but they have all, even the shortest, con- 
tained the assurance that she would be at home at the 
close of the year." 

" Pa, the stage has stopped here," said little Charley, 
and he bounded from his father's knee. The next 
moment the room rang with the shout of ''Abby has 
come ! Abby has come ! " In a few moments more, 
she was in the midst of the joyful throng. Her father 
pressed her hand in silence, and tears gushed from her 
mother's eyes. Her brothers and sisters were clamor- 
ous with delight, all but little Charley, to whom Abby 
was a stranger, and who repelled with terror all her 
overtures for a better acquaintance. Her parents gazed 
upon her with speechless pleasure, for they felt that a 
change for the better had taken place in their once 
wayward girl. Yes, there she stood before them, a 
little taller and a little thinner, and, when the flush of 
emotion had passed away, perhaps a little paler; but 
the eyes were bright in their joyous radiance, and the 
smile of health and innocence was playing around the 
rosy lips. She carefully laid away her new straw 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 65 

bonnet, with its plain trimming of light blue ribbon, 
and her dark merino dress showed to the best advan- 
tage her neat, symmetrical form. There was more 
delicacy of personal appearance than when she left 
them, and also more softness of manner ; for constant 
collision with so many young females had worn off 
the little asperities which had marked her conduct 
while at home. 

'' Well, Abby, how many silk gowns have you got?" 
said her father, as she opened a large, new trunk. 

'' Not one^ father," said she ; and she fixed her dark 
eyes upon him with an expression which told much. 
^' But here are some little books for the children, and a 
new calico dress for mother ; and here is a nice black 
silk handkerchief for you to wear around your neck on 
Sundays ; accept it, dear father, for it is your daugh- 
ter's first gift." 

"You had better have bought me a pair of spectacles, 
for I am sure I cannot see anything." There were 
tears in the rough farmer's eyes, but he tried to laugh 
and joke that they might not be perceived. " But 
what did you do with all your money 7" 

"I thought I had better leave it there," said Abby, 
and she placed her bank-book in her father's hand. 
Mr. Atkins looked at it a moment, and the forced smile 
faded away. The surprise had been too great, and 
tears fell thick and fast from the father's eyes. 

"It is but little," said Abby. "But it was all you 
could save," replied her father, "and I am proud of 
you, Abby ; yes, proud that I am the father of such a 
girl. It is not this paltry sum which pleases me so 
much, but the prudence, self-command, and real affec- 
6* 



66 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



tion for us, which you have displayed. But was it not 
sometimes hard to resist temptation?" 

'^ Yes, father, you can never know how hard ; but it 
was the thought of this night which sustained me 
through it all. I knew how you would smile, and 
what my mother would say and feel ; and though 
there have been moments, yes, hours, that have seen 
me wretched enough, yet this one evening will repay 
for all. There is but one thing now to mar my happi- 
ness, and that is, the thought that this little fellow has 
quite forgotten me;" and she drew Charley to her 
side. But the new picture-book had already effected 
wonders, and in a few moments he was in her lap, 
with his arms around her neck, and his mother could 
not persuade him to retire that night until he had given 
'' sister Abby a hundred kisses." 

" Father," said Abby, as she arose to retire, when 
the tall clock struck eleven, ''may I not sometime go 
back to Lowell? I should like to add a little to the 
sum in the bank, and I should be glad of one • silk 
gown ! " 

''Yes, Abby, you may do anything you wish. I 
shall never again be afraid to let you spend a year in 
Lowell." 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 67 



THE FIRST BELLS. 



CHAPTER I. 



There are times when I am melancholy, when the 
sun seems to shine with a shadowy hght, and the 
woods are filled with notes of sadness ; when the 
up-springing flowers seem blossoms strewed upon a 
bier, and every streamlet chants a requiem. Have we 
not all our trials? and though we may bury the sad 
thoughts to which they give birth in the dark recesses 
of our own hearts, yet Memory and Sensibility must 
both be dead, if we can always be light and mirthful. 

Once it was not so. There was a time when I gaily 
viewed the dull clouds of a rainy day, and could hear 
the voice of rejoicing in the roarings of the wintry 
storm, when sorrow was an unmeaning word, and in 
things which now appear sacred, my thoughtless mind 
could see the ludicrous. 

These thoughts have been suggested by the recol- 
lection of a poor old couple, to whom in my careless 
girlhood I gave the name of '' the first bells." And 
now, I doubt not, you are wondering what strange 
association of ideas could have led me to fasten this 
appellation upon a poor old man and woman. My 
answer must be the narration of a few facts. 

When I was young, we all worshipped in the great 
meeting-house, which now stands so vacant and for- 
lorn upon the brow of Church Hill. It is never used 
but upon town-meeting days, for those who once went 
up to the house of God in company, now worship in 



68 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

three separate buildings. There is discord between 
them — that worst of all hatred, the animosity which 
arises from difference of religious opinions. I am sor- 
ry for it ; not that I regret that they cannot all think 
alike, but that they cannot "agree to differ." Because 
the heads are not in unison, it needeth not that the 
hearts should be estranged; and a difference of faith 
may be expressed in kindly words. I have my friends 
among them all, and they are not the less dear to me 
because upon some doctrinal points our opinions can- 
not be the same. A creed which I do not now believe, 
is hallowed by the recollections of the Sabbath wor- 
ship, the evening meetings, the religious feelings — in 
short, of the faith, hope and trust of my earlier days. 

I remember now how still and beautiful our Sunday 
mornings used to seem, after the toil and play of the 
busy week. I would take my catechism in my hand, 
and go and sit on a large flat stone under the shade of 
the chestnut tree ; and, looking abroad, would wonder 
if there was a thing which did not feel that it was the 
Sabbath. The sun was as bright and warm as upon 
other days, but its light seemed to fall more softly upon 
the fields, woods and hills; and though the birds sung 
as loudly and joyfully as ever, I thought their sweet 
voices united in a more sacred strain. I heard a Sab- 
bath tone in the waving of the boughs above me, and 
the hum of the bees around me. and even the bleating 
of the lambs and lowing of the kine seemed pitched 
upon some softer key. Thus it is that the heart fash- 
ions the mantle with which it is wont to enrobe all 
nature, and gives to its never silent voices a tone of 
joy, or sorrow, or holy peace. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 69 

We had then no bell ; and when tlie hour approached 
for the commencement of religious services, each nook 
and dale sent forth its worshippers in silence. But 
precisely half an hour before the rest of our neighbors 
started, the old man and woman, who lived upon Pine 
Hill, could be seen wending their way to the meeting- 
house. They walked side by side, Avith a slow, even 
step, such as was befitting the errand which had 
brought them forth. Their appearance was always the 
signal for me to lay aside my book, and prepare to fol- 
low them to the house of God. And it was because 
they were so unvarying in their early attendance, be- 
cause I was never disappointed in the forms which first 
emerged from the pine trees upon the hill, that I gave 
them the name of '' the first bells." 

Why they went thus regularly early I know not, but 
think it probable they wished for time to rest after their 
long walk, and then to prepare their hearts to join in 
exercises which were evidently more valued by them 
than by most of those around them. Yet it must have 
been a deep interest which brought so large a congre- 
gation from the scattered houses, and many far-off" 
dwellings of our thinl^^-peopled country town. 

And every face was then familiar to me. I knew 
each white-headed patriarch who took his seat by the 
door of his pew, and every aged woman who seated 
herself in the low chair in the middle of it ; and the 
countenances of the middle aged and the young were 
rendered familiar by the exchange of Sabbath glances, 
as we met year after year in that humble temple. 

But upon none did I look with more interest than 
upon '' the first bells." There they always were when 



70 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

I took my accustomed place — there upon the free seat 
at the right hand of the pulpit. Their heads were 
always bowed in meditation till they arose to join in 
the morning prayer ; and when the choir sent forth 
their strain of praise, they drew nearer to each other, 
and looked upon the same book as they silently sent 
forth the spirit's song to their Father in heaven. There 
was an expression of meekness, of calm and perfect 
faith, and of subdued sorrow, upon the countenances 
of both, which won my reverence, and excited my 
curiosity to know more of them. 

They were poor. I knew it by the coarse and much- 
worn garments which they always wore ; but I could 
not conjecture why they avoided the society and sym- 
pathy of all around them. They always waited for 
our pastor's greeting when he descended from the pul- 
pit, and meekly bowed to all around ; but farther than 
this their intercourse with others extended not. It ap- 
peared to me that some heavy trial, which had knit their 
own hearts more closely together, and endeared to them 
their faith, and its religious observances, had also ren- 
dered them unusually sensitive to the careless remarks 
and curious inquiries of a country neighborhood. 

One Sabbath our pastor preached upon parental love. 
His text was that affecting ejaculation of David, "O 
Absalom, my son, my son!" He told of the depth 
and fervor of that affection which in a parental heart 
will remain unchanged and unabated through 3^ears of 
sin, estrangement and rebellion. He spoke of that 
reckless insubordination which often sends pang after 
pang through the parent's breast; and of wicked deeds 
which sometimes bring their grey heads in sorrow to 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 71 

the grave. I heard stilled sobs, and lookmg up, saw 
that the old man and woman at the right hand of the 
pulpit had buried their faces in their hands. They 
were trembling with agitation, and I saw that a fount of 
deep and painful remembrances had now been opened. 
They soon regained their usual calmness, but I thought 
their steps more slow, and their countenances more 
sorrowful tliat day, when, after our morning service 
had closed, they went to the grave in the corner of the 
church-yard. There was no stone to mark it, but their 
feet had been wearing, for many a Sabbath noon, the 
little path which led to it. 

I went that night to my mother, and asked her if 
she could not tell me something about '' the first bells." 
She chid me for the phrase by which I was wont to 
designate them, but said that her knowledge of their 
former life was very limited. Several years before, 
she added, there was a man murdered in hot blood in 
a distant town, by a person named John L. The mur- 
derer was tried and hung ; and not long after, this old 
man and woman came and hired the little cottage upon 
Pine Hill. Their names v/ere the same that the mur- 
derer had borne, and their looks of sadness, and retiring 
manners, had led to the conclusion that they were his 
parents. No one knew certainly that it was so, for 
they shrunk from all inquiries, and never adverted to 
the past ; but a gentle and sad looking girl, who had 
accompanied them to their new place of abode, had 
pined away, and died within the first year of their 
arrival. She was their daughter, and was supposed to 
have died of a broken heart for her brother who had 
been liung. She was buried in the corner of the church- 



72 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

yard, and every pleasant Sabbath noon her aged 
parents had mourned over her lowly grave. 

''And now, my daughter," said my mother, in con- 
clusion, '^ respect their years, their sorrows, and above 
all, the deep, fervent piety which cheers and sustains 
them, and which has been nurtured by agonies, and 
watered by tears, such as I hope my child will never 
know." 

My mother drew me to her side, and kissed me ten- 
derly, and I resolved that never again would I in a 
spirit of levity call Mr. and Mrs. L. '' the first bells." 



CHAPTER II. 

Years passed on; and through summer's sunshine 
and its showers, and through winter's cold, and frosts, 
and storms, that old couple still went upon their never- 
failing Sabbath pilgrimage. I can see them even noAV, 
as they looked in days long gone by. The old man 
in his loose, black, Quaker-like coat, and low-crowned, 
much-worn hat, his heavy, cow-hide boots, and coarse 
blue mittens ; and his partner walking slowly by his 
side, wearing a scanty brown cloak, with four little 
capes, and a close, black, rusty-looking bonnet. In 
summer, the cloak was exchanged for a cotton shawl, 
and the woollen gown for one of mourning print. The 
Sabbath expression was as unchangeable as its dress. 
Their features were very different, but they had both 
the same mild, mournful look, the same touching 
glance, whenever their eyes rested upon each other ; 
and it was one which sjwke of sympathy, hallowed 
by heart-felt piety. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 73 

At length a coffin was borne upon a bier from the 
Uttle house upon the hill ; and after that, the widow 
went alone each sabbath nooii to the two graves in the 
corner of the church-yard. I felt sad when I thought 
how lonely and sorrowful she must be now ; and 
one pleasant day I ventured, an unbidden guest, into 
her lowly cot. As I approached her door, I heard her 
singing, in a low, tremulous tone, 

" How are thy servants blessed, O Lord." 

I was touched to the heart ; for I could see that her 
blessings were those of a faith, hope and joy, which the 
world could neither give nor take away. 

She was evidently destitute of what the world calls 
comforts, and I feared she might also want its necessa- 
ries. But her look was almost cheerful as she assured 
me that her knitting (at which I perceived she was 
quite expeditious) supplied her with all which she now 
wanted. 

I looked upon her sunburnt, wrinkled countenance, 
and thought it radiant with moral beauty. She wore 
no cap, and her thin gray hair was combed back from 
her furrowed brow. Her dress was a blue woollen skirt, 
and a short, loose gown ; and her hard, shrivelled hands 
bore witness to much unfeminine labor. Yet she was 
contented, and even happy, and singing praise to God for 
His blessings. * ^ * 

The next winter I thought I could perceive a falter- 
ing in her gait, whenever she ascended Church Hill ; 
and one sabbath she was not in her accustomed seat. 
The next, she was also absent ; and when I looked 
upon Pine Hill, I could perceive no smoke issuing from 
7 



74 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

her chimney. I felt anxious, and requested hberty to 
make, what was then in our neighborhood an unusual 
occurrence, a sabbath visit. My mother granted me 
permission to go, and remain as long as my services 
might be necessary ; and at the close of the afternoon 
worship, I went to the little house upon the hill. I lis- 
tened eagerly for some sound, as I entered the cold 
apartment; but hearing none, I tremblingly approach- 
ed the low, hard bed. She was lying there with the 
same calm look of resignation, and whispered a few 
words of welcome as I took her hand. 

"You are sick, and alone," said I to her; ''tell me 
what I can do for you." 

"lam sick," was her reply, "but not alotie. He 
who is every where, and at all times present, has been 
with me in the day and in the night. I have prayed 
to Him, and received answers of mercy, love and peace. 
He has sent His angel to call me home, and there is 
nought for you to do but to watch the spirit's depar- 
ture." 

I felt that it was so ; yet I must do something. I 
kindled a fire, and prepared some refreshment ; and 
after she drank a bowl of warm tea, I thought she 
looked better. She asked me for her Bible, and I 
brought her the worn volume which had been lying 
upon the little stand. She took from it a soiled and 
muchTWorn letter, and after pressing it to her lips, en- 
deavored to open it — but her hands were too weak, 
and it dropped upon the bed. " No matter," said she, 
as I offered to open it for her , "I know all that is in 
it, and in that book also. But I thought I should like 
to look once more upon them both. I have read them 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 75 

daily for many years till now ; but I do not mind it — 
I shall go soon." 

She followed me with her eyes as I laid them aside, 
and then closing them, her lips moved as if in prayer. 
She soon after fell into a slumber, and I watched her 
every breath, fearing it might be the last. 

What lessons of wisdom, truth, and fortitude, were 
taught me by that humble bed-side ! I had never be- 
fore been with the dying, and I had always imagined 
a death-bed to be fraught with terror. I expected that 
there were always fearful shrieks, and appalling groans, 
as the soul left its clay tenement ; but my fears were 
now dispelled. A sweet calmness stole into my inmost 
soul, as I watched by the low couch of the sufferer ; 
and I said, ' If this be death, may my last end be like 
hers.' 

But at length I saw that some dark dream had 
brought a frown upon the pallid brow, and an expres- 
sion of woe around the parched lips. She was 
endeavoring to speak or to weep, and I was about to 
awaken her, when a sweet smile came like a flash of 
sunlight over her sunken face, and I saw that the dream 
of woe was exchanged for one of pleasure. Then she 
slept calmly, and I wondered if the spirit would go 
home in that peaceful slumber. But at length she 
awoke, and after looking upon me and her little room 
with a bewildered air, she heaved a sigh, and said 
mournfully, " I thought that I was not to come back 
again, but it is only for a little while. I have had a 
pleasant dream, but not at first. I thought once that I 
stood in the midst of a vast multitude, and we were 
all looking up at one who was struggling on a gallows. 



76 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

O, I have seen that sight in many a dream before, but 
still I could not bear it, and I said, ' Father, have mer- 
cy J ' and then I thought that the sky rolled away from 
behind the gallows, and there was a flood of glory 
in the depths beyond ; and I heard a voice saying to 
him who was hanging there, 'This day shalt thou 
be with me in Paradise ! ' And then the gallows 
dropped, and the multitude around me vanished, and 
the sky rolled together again ; but before it had quite 
closed over that scene of beauty, 1 looked again, and 
theyivere all there. Yes," added she, with a placid 
smile, " I know that ^e is there with them; the three 
are in heaven, and /shall be there soon." 

She ceased, and a drowsy feeling came over her. 
After a while, she opened her eyes with a strange look 
of anxiety and terror. I went to her, but she could not 
speak, and she pressed my hand closely, as though 
she feared I would leave her. It was a momentary 
terror, for she knew that the last pangs were coming. 
There was a painful struggle, and then came rest and 
peaceful confidence. " That letter," whispered she 
convulsively ; and I went to the Bible, and took from 
it the soiled paper which claimed her thoughts even in 
death. I laid it in her trembling hands, which clasped 
it nervously, and then pressing it to her heart, she fell 
into that slumber from which there is no awakening. 

When I saw that she was indeed gone, I took the 
letter and laid it in its accustomed place ; and then, 
after straightening the limbs, and throwing the bed- 
clothes over the stiffening form, I left the house. 

It was a dazzling scene of winter beauty that met 
my eye, as I went forth from that lowly bed of death. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 77 

The rising sun threw a rosy hght upon the crusted 
snow, and the earth was dressed in a rohe of sparkhng 
jewels. The trees were hung with gUttering drops, 
and the frozen streams were dressed in robes of bril- 
Uant beauty. 

I thought of her upon whose eyes a brighter morn 
had beamed, and of a scene of beauty upon which no 
sun should ever set. 

I went home, and told my mother what had passed; 
and she went, with some others, to prepare the body 
for burial. I went to look upon it once more — the 
morning of the funeral. The features had assumed a 
rigid aspect, but the placid smile was still there. The 
hands were crossed upon the breast ; and as the form 
lay so still and calm in its snowy robes, I almost wish- 
ed that the last change might come upon me, so that it 
would bring a peace like this which should last for- 
evermore. 

I went to the Bible, and took from it that letter. 
Curiosity was strong within me, and I opened it. It was 
signed '^ John L.," and dated from his prison, the night 
before his execution. But I did not read it. O no ! it 
was too sacred. It contained those words of penitence 
and affection over which her stricken heart had brood- 
ed for years. It had been the well-spring from which 
she had drunk joy and consolation, and derived her 
hopes of a reunion where there should be no more 
shame, nor sorrow, nor death. 

I could not destroy that letter ; so I laid it beneath 
the clasped hands, over the heart to which it had been 
pressed when its beatings were forever stilled ; and they, 
buried her, too, in the corner of the church-yard ; and 



78 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

that tattered paper soon mouldered to ashes upon her 
breast. ^ * * 

We have now a bell upon our new meeting-house ; 
and when I hear its sabbath-morning peal, my thoughts 
are subdued to a tone fitting for sacred worship ; for 
my mind goes back to that old couple, whom I was 
wont to call " the first bells ; " and I think of the pow- 
er of religion to hallow and strengthen the affections, 
to elevate the mind, and sustain the drooping spirit, 
even in the saddest and humblest lot of life. 



A FRAGMENT. 

From The Wife, one of the illustrations of the affections in Factory Life. 



I CANNOT now tell you all of the sad experience of 
that time, of all that 1 suffered, and also of that which 
I enjoyed; for, in time, the better feelings displaced 
those more unworthy, and observation and reflection 
did their work in enlightening me with regard to 
myself and others. I was now among the poor and 
unsophisticated. I heard the complaints of the ne- 
glected and the ignorant, and I was taught much 
real knowledge of the human heart. I was sad and 
stricken, and I met with universal kindness and sym- 
pathy. I had always thought these girls an almost 
unmixed compound of envy, injustice and ill will. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 79 

These feelings had been awakened in them by me, 
and others hke myself, but now there was an entire 
change of feeling and demeanor. O, Helen I it may 
do us good to descend for a time into the cold, dark 
gulf where so many always dwell ; and I now often 
ask myself this question : Why has the sun of pros- 
perity shone upon so large a portion of my earthly 
path, while so many, quite as worthy, walk always in 
the shade? And believe me when I say that I consid- 
er my present exemption from that hard toil and trial 
an unmerited privilege, but not a right. If the same 
task should ever again appear in the line of duty I 
would perform it, without feeling that there was one 
claim for approval as an act of heroism or self-sacri- 
fice. 

But you will ask. Is the trial now wholly over? 
Are all admirers of your past conduct? Do not the 
vain and fashionable sneer at her who was once a fac- 
tory operative ? There are many who regard me with 
astonishment. They look at me as they would at an 
ogre or a mermaid. They cannot conceive why a fac- 
tory did not metamorphose me into something less than 
human. These amuse me : and then there are others 
who look upon my past conduct as the effect of melan- 
choly ; they pity me, and rejoice that my sadness and 
its cause are removed. But, when I meet with those 
who exhibit contempt and arrogance, their conduct 
places them too far beneath me to permit me to be 
either wounded or offended. O, how strong I feel then, 
in the powers which had once lain dormant within me, 
and in those which I had in that toil acquired. What 
would tliese weak creatures have done in my place ? 



80 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

And what would have become of me had I been hke 
them ? I should now be beggarly dependent upon my 
wealthy relatives, and my deserted husband perhaps a 
corpse. But now we are happier and dearer to each 
other than we have ever been before, for the love is 
stronger and purer, which has suiFered and struggled, 
than that which has merely enjoyed. But, indeed, 
there may be enjoyment even in suffering and labor. 
That, which once would have appeared so terrible to 
me that I should have been paralyzed with horror 
at the prospect of it, was not thus dreadful in endu- 
rance. Do you not remember how often we have sat 
in our cheerful parlor, listening to the howling storm 
which beat against the windows? And if we were 
obliged to go out, how we dreaded to meet it ! But 
when we had submitted ourselves to its horrors how 
they vanished, as we passed on ! How many of its 
terrors had been imaginary ! The wind and the rain 
and the darkness were not so awful as we had suppos- 
ed. Thus it is in the storms of life ; and it is in these 
times also that our perceptions of spiritual things are 
quickened and refined ; that the unseen world becomes 
more visible ; that faith seems lost in sight, and hope 
in fruition. Then our purest aspirations go up, and 
God's richest blessings come down. 

Yes, there are times in our earthly pilgrimage when 
we come to a desert place — the sun sets upon us, and 
we are weary and alone. We lay ourselves upon the 
cold, hard ground, and our heads are pillowed upon 
stones. The darkness thicken^ around us ; but, in the 
depth of the gloom, Heaven is opened above us — a 
ladder is placed between the earth and parted sky, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 81 

and angels are ascending and descending upon it, 
The dark night passes away — morning dawns upon 
us; we rise, invigorated, to pursue our journey; but 
that spot is gratefully marked by some pillar of re- 
membrance, and we say of the scene of our trial, 
'• Surely, this is none other than the house of God — this 
is the gate of heaven. " 



SKETCHES OP THE PAST. No. 1. 

FATHER MOODY. 

'And who,' methinks I hear some one ask, 'was 
Father Moody? ' Gentle querist! he was one of the old 
New England clergymen, in the days 'o' lang syne,' 
when they could step the earth with an air which 
seemed to say, ' I am monarch of all I survey ; ' and 
he was one of the most renowned of that noted order 
of men. ' His fame went abroad through all the coun- 
try round about,' that is, the District of Maine — for 
that was long before it was a State — and even to the 
farthest corner of New England. The cause of this 
notoriety was probably his eccentricity, for his talents, 
though undisputed, raised him not so much above his 
fellow-men, as his oddities removed him from them. 

When he lived, I cannot exactly say; but as he was 
my great-great-great- grandfather, it must have been a 
great, great, great while ago. He was the minister of 



82 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

York, the oldest (and at that time the chief) town in 
Maine. The foUowing anecdotes will illustrate his 
character, and none will he related but those which are 
well authenticated, though many others are extant. 

The first I shall narrate displays his oddity, more 
than his good nature ; and of that it is a pretty fair 
specimen. 

Madam Moody was very fond of riding on horse- 
back, and her husband often gratified her by a seat on 
the pillion, when he took an airing. But sometimes he 
would tell his lady to prepare for a ride, and when the 
horse was saddled and pillioned, he would mount him, 
and ride around the yard, while madam was impa- 
tiently waiting upon the horse-block. After a while 
he would dismount, and send the horse away. ' But, 
Mr. Moody,' his spouse would exclaim, 'you promised 
me a ride. Why do you treat me thus ?' 

'To teach you to bear disappointment, Mrs. Moody,' 
would be the amiable reply. 'This is to exercise your 
patience, and give you an opportunity for self-control.' 

So Mrs. Moody would exercise her locomotives, by 
descendmg from the block, returning to the house, and 
divesting herself of her riding habiliments, without 
uttering a reproachful word, though perhaps thinking 
that there is no need of making opportunities for the 
exercise of these virtues. 

A young clergyman was once visiting him, and on 
the morning of the Sabbath he asked him if he would 
not preach. 

' Oh no. Father Moody,' was the young gentleman's 
reply ; ' I am travelling for my health, and wish to be 
entirely relieved from clerical duties. Besides, you, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 83 

sir, are a distinguished father in Israel, and one whom 
I have long wished to have an opportunity of hearing, 
and I hope to-day for that gratification.' 

' Well,' said the old man, as they wended their way 
to the meeting-house, ' you will sit with me in the pul- 
pit?' 

It was perfectly immaterial, the young minister re- 
plied; he could sit in the pulpit, or the pew, as Father 
Moody preferred. So when they entered the meeting- 
house. Father Moody stalked on, turned his companion 
up the pulpit stairs, and went himself into the parson- 
age pew. 

The young man looked rather blank when he found 
himself alone, and waited a long while for his host to 
'come to the rescue.' But there Father Moody sat be- 
fore him, as straight and stiff as a stake or a statue, 
and finding there was to be no reprieve for him, he 
opened the Bible, and went through with the exer- 
cises. Perhaps the excitement caused by this strange 
treatment might have enlivened his brain; at all events 
he preached remarkably well. 

After the conclusion of the services, Father Moody 
arose in his pew, and said to the congregation, 'My 
friends, we have had an excellent discourse this morn- 
ing, from our young brother ; but you are all indebted 
to one for it.' 

Perhaps it was the same young clergyman, (and I 
should not wonder if it was the very night after this 
clerical joke,) of whom the following anecdote is relat- 
ed. He requested his guest to lead the evening house- 
hold service, but was answered by a request to be ex- 
cused. ' But you will pray with us,' exclaimed the 



84 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



old man. ' No, Father Moody, I wish to be excused.' 
'But you must pray.' 'No, sir; 1 must be excused.' 
' But you shall pray.' ' No, sir ; I shall be excused.' 
' I command you, in the name of Almighty God, to 
pray.' ' Mr. Moody ! ' replied the young man, in a 
determined voice, ' you need not attempt to brow-beat 
me, for I won't pray.' 'Well, well,' exclaimed the old 
gentleman, in a discomfited tone, ' I believe you have 
more brass in your face, than grace in your heart.' 

A daughter of President Edwards Avas once at his 
house, upon a visit. ' I shall remember you in my 
public prayers this morning,' said he to her, one Sab- 
bath, as they started for meeting. ' No ! oh, no ! 
Father Moody, I beg of you not to do so. I entreat of 
you not to do it.' But in his morning service, he did 
pray for the young lady who was then an inmate of 
his family, the daughter of one of the most distinguish- 
ed divines, and while all eyes were probably directed to 
the parsonage pew, he continued, ' She begged me not 
to mention her in my prayers, but I told her Itcould? 

Father Moody was very direct and fearless in his 
rebukes to the evil-doers ; and he wished always to 
see them shrink and cower beneath his reproof and 
frown ; but in one instance, at least, he was not grati- 
fied. 

Col. Ingrahame, a wealthy parishioner, had retamed 
his large stock of corn, in time of great scarcity, in 
hopes of raising the price. Father Moody heard of it, 
and resolved upon a public attack upon the transgres- 
sor. So he arose in his pulpit, one Sabbath, and named 
as his text. Proverbs xi. 26, ' He that withholdeth 
corn, the people shall curse him : but blessings shall be 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 85 

upon the head of him that selleth it.' Col. Ingrahame 
could not but know to whom reference was made ; but 
he held up his head, and faced his pastor, with a look of 
stolid unconsciousness. Father Moody went on with 
some very applicable remarks, but Col. Ingrahame still 
pretended not to understand the allusion. Father 
Moody grew very warm, and became still more direct 
in his remarks upon matters and things. But Col. In- 
grahame still held up his head, as high, perhaps a little 
higher than ever, and would not put on the coat so 
aptly prepared for him. Father Moody at length lost 
all patience. ' Col. Ingrahame ! ' said he, ' Col. In- 
grahame ! You know that I mean you. Why don't 

YOU HANG down YOUR HEAD ? ' 

Mrs. Ingrahame, the Colonel's lady, was very fond 
of fine dress, and sometimes appeared at meeting in a 
style not exactly accordant with her pastor's ideas of 
Christian female propriety. One morning she came 
sweeping into church, in a new hooped dress, which 
was then very fashionable. ' Here she comes,' said 
Father Moody from the pulpit, ' Here she comes, top 
and top-gallant, rigged most beautifully, and sailing 
most majestically ; but she has a leak that will sink 
her to hell.^ 

The old gentleman was something of a sportsman, 
and occasionally, in the fall of the year, he would 
bring Madam Moody a fine goose, to grace her dinner 
table. One morning he took down his fowling-piece, 
and said to his wife, ' If I shoot one goose, I will bring 
it to you, but if I bring down two I shall devote one of 
them to the Lord.' 

' And what will you do with it? ' 
8 



86 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

'I will give it to that poor widow, over the way." 

He brought home two, but they were very different 
— one of them a remarkably fine, large bird : the other, 
much inferior. Madam Moody wished him to reserve 
the larger one for himself ' No, no, Mrs. Moody,' re- 
plied her husband, ' the Lord shall have the best,' 
and he carried it to the poor woman, in defiance of his 
wife's objections. 

Father Moody would not receive a regular salary, 
and was indeed so negligent of pecuniary affairs, that 
the parish appointed a committee, to see that the 
parsonage house was supplied with wood, meal, 
meat, and other necessaries. He was very generous ; 
and it has been said that he took his wife's shoes off 
her feet, to give to a bare-footed beggar. This may be 
true ; but if so, it is probable the good lady had a bet- 
ter pair ' up stairs.' 

One time when he was going to Boston, to attend a 
great Conference, or Convention, or something of that 
sort, accompanied by Elder Soward, as delegate, he 
saw a poor man in the hands of the officers, who were 
taking him to jail, for debt. Father Moody inquired 
the amount for which he was to be imprisoned, and 
found that he had sufficient to defray the debt, which 
he immediately did, and the poor man was liberated. 
' Elder Soward,' said he to his companion, ' I must 
depend upon you to bear the expenses of my journey, 
for I have nothing left.' The Elder ventured respect- 
fully to question the propriety and prudence of his 
conduct in thus rendering himself so dependent ; but 
the old clergyman replied, ' Elder Soward, does not 
the Bible say, Cast thy bread upon the waters, and 
thou shalt find it after many days ? ' 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 87 

Towards evening, they reached the city; and the 
good people of that good city came out upon Boston 
Common, to see the famous Father Moody ; then, as 
now, ever ready, to bestow attention upon talent and 
piety. Elder Soward did not fail to relate the morn- 
ing's adventure, and after they had retired to their 
lodgings, a waiter brought Father Moody a sealed 
packet. He opened it, and found that it enclosed the 
precise sum which he had given to the poor man in the 
morning. Whether it was the benefaction of some 
one benevolent individual, or the proceeds of a sub- 
scription, ' our deponent saith not ; ' but the old man 
turned to his companion, exclaiming, ' Elder Soward ! 
I cast my bread upon the waters in the morning, and 
behold ! it is returned to me in the evening.' 

When the war vessel was officered and manned for 
an attack upon Cape Breton, and the sailors were 
ready to start her from the wharf, it was proposed that 
Father Moody should crave a blessing upon the enter- 
prise. The seamen were discomfited, fearing a long 
detention, but the old clergyman uncovered his head, 
and lifting his eyes to heaven, he prayed, ''O Lord! for 
Christ's sake give us Cape Breton. Amen. Now you 
may hoist ! " 

One of the best anecdotes, and the one with which 
I will close this sketch, is as follows : He was chosen 
chaplain when the American army was at Cape Bre- 
ton ; and when a splendid dinner was to be given, in 
honor of the officers who took Louisburg, they wished 
Father Moody to crave the blessing at table, thinking 
that as he was then an old man, and siich an old man, 
he would not detain them with a very protracted exer- 



88 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

cise. The old man arose, and said, ' We bless thee, 
O Lord ! for the great and glorious victory, with which 
thou hast favored us ; but so varied and numberless 
are thy mercies, that our thanksgiving for them we 
will defer unto eternity. Amen.' 



DEAL GExNTLY. 

" Can you name her now so lightly ? 

Once the idol of you all : — 
When a star has shone so brightly, 

Can you glory in its fall ? " T. Moore. 

There were loud voices in Madam Bradshaw's little 
sitting-room: tones of anger, derision, and reproach, 
uttering words of detraction. Madam sat silently lis- 
tening to her young visitors, but her brow contracted, 
and her lips compressed, as harsh feelings seemed to 
strengthen by an open expression of them. She re- 
membered that just one year before this Sophy Melton 
had come to visit her, with the same young ladies who 
were now paying her their annual visit. 

Madam Bradshaw was the widow of the old village 
clergyman ; who, when he died, left her poor, though 
not destitute. In the parish she had been much re- 
spected and beloved, and there was no fear that Mad- 
am would ever be left to want, among so many friends. 
They had a very delicate way of bestowing their boun- 
ty, and made several annual parties ; when they went to 
the old parsonage always "carrying their welcome." 
The children went when her cherries were ripe ; the 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 89 

married ladies at Thanksgiving time, bringing their 
bounties ; the elderly spinsters — considerate souls — ^just 
after Fast, and did her spring cleaning for her, and re- 
plenished her exhausted winter stores. The misses 
came when her roses were in blossom, and her front 
garden was one little wilderness of fragrant beauty. 
Then they did up her summer caps, collars, and neck- 
erchiefs, and saw that her wardrobe needed no addi- 
tion. 

Among those who came with the roses, ''herself a 
fairer flower," had been Sophy Melton; but this year 
she was absent, and Madam missed her bright smile 
and sweet voice. The morning was busily passed by 
the girls in washing, starching, and ironing — the after- 
noon in mending and making for the good old lady. 

But now the sewing was all done, the tea-table had 
been nicely cleared away, and, as twilight came on, the 
girls sat in the old parlor talking of their past and fu- 
ture annual visits. How they loved this old room — 
the old pictures in their heavy frames — the dark ma- 
hogany, polished to the brightness of crystal — the worn 
and faded but spotless carpet, the old china, as perfect 
as ever — the well kept silver, and her store of curiosi- 
ties, as curious as ever. Then there were her portraits, 
upon which they all loved to gaze. There was the 
old pastor himself, looking at them from the canvass 
as benignly as he had ever done from the pulpit. — 
There was the son, who had gone a missionary to for- 
eign lands, and left name and fame, if nought else, to 
his fond mother. There was the noble boy, too, 
who left his mother for a long voyage to the Arctic 
seas, and was never heard of more. There was the 



90 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

mild but steadfast daughter, who had gone to the far 
West, and laid down her life in that home missionary- 
enterprise, the education of the young. The girls loved 
to look upon those relics, and feel, awakening in them- 
selves, aspirations for that excellence which had been 
embodied and lived by those who had now passed 
away. 

Perhaps they imagined they were showing respect 
for virtue by their severe remarks upon Sophy Melton; 
but Madam Bradshaw was evidently displeased.. At 
length she spoke : 

" Can you name her now so lightly ? " &c. 

The girls were abashed for a moment. 

But Caroline Freeman replied, " Ma' Bradshaw, 1 
have not yet spoken ; but I have not attempted to stop 
my friends, for it has always appeared to me that the 
reproach of the good was but the just penalty for this 
violation of the laws of virtue. Sophy's error has not 
brought upon her poverty, pain, or any diminution of 
the physical enjoyments of life. If her friends must 
still, from motives of compassion or philanthropy, 
countenance her, where is the punishment society 
should inflict for contempt of its opinions'? " 

"I asked you not to countenance her, or associate 
with her, not to speak lightly of her sin, or accustom 
yourselves to think of it as a venial error; but, my 
dear girls, I only beg of you to deal gently. Let com- 
passion, rather than resentment, influence your thoughts 
of her. I have seen anger where I would have beheld 
grief. Moreover, may there not be too much self-con- 
fidence exhibited in such remarks ? You place your- 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 91 

selves among the good. Sophy has perhaps once 
thought herself as good, as safe as either of you. She 
was the most beautiful, the most fascinating of you all, 
therefore the most tried and tempted. Be not angry 
with me, when I bid you ask yourselves whether there 
is not a little gratified envy in all these aspersions of 
your fallen sister ; whether there is not a slight feeling 
of triumph, that the first has now become the last; 
that she who was greatest is now the least among 
you ? " 

" O, Ma' Bradshaw ! deal gently with us. We nev- 
er envied her ; we were proud that one so beautiful, 
and, as we thought, so good, was of our little band. 
We do not rejoice, we mourn that the most beautiful 
star is lost from our little constellation. But, how are 
we to show our hatred of wickedness, unless we speak 
severely of sin? Were we to speak mildly of this 
fault, might we not be misunderstood ? You must re- 
member that our principles have not been tested by a 
long life, as our dear Ma' Bradshaw' s have been." 

" My dear girls," said Madam, " do not think there 
is no better way of showing your detestation of sin 
than by reproach or vituperation of the fellow-being 
who has fallen into it. Keep your own garments spot- 
less, your own hearts clean, your own hands unstained, 
and then fear not that your commiseration of the sin- 
ful and guilty Avill ever be misunderstood — that pity 
will be mistaken for sympathy, that kindness will be 
thought weakness. Never fear, with a clear conscience 
and a firm heart, to deal gently. 



92 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



THE PHILOSOPHER. 

One evening, after leaving the tea-table, I repaired to 
my chamber, to prepare to go out. As I was engaged 
in some of the preliminary exercises of the toilet, I 
thought that, amidst the confused chorus of female 
voices, which reached me from the lower rooms, I 
could discern the more gutteral tones of a specimen of 
the other gender ; and as it continued to increase in 
force, and emphasis, my curiosity was aroused to know 
from whom proceeded this admirable flow of harmony 
and eloquence. 

"Pray, who is down stairs, talking so earnestly?" 
said I, as my fellow-boarder opened my door. 

" It 's old ," replied she, naming a notorious pro- 
fessor; " he 's trying to get some of the girls to attend 
his lectures. Run down now, if you want to see him, 
for I suppose he '11 go away soon." 

I had heard considerable about the gentleman, and 
felt quite a portion of Mother Eve's frailty prompting 
me to "go and see for myself;" and so, as did the 
Queen of Sheba, when she wished to satisfy her own 
eyes respecting the wise monarch of old, I resolved to 
enter the august presence. There was no time to be 
lost, for judging from the quick intonations which had 
assailed my ears, I expected that " business was to be 
done in short metre;" so, hastily twisting together 
the locks which were dangling around my face and 
eyes, and sticking them all together, with a comb, at 
the top of my cranium, I descended, bare-armed and 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 93 

shoeless, to the place of exhibition. I dropped, unob- 
served, into a chair near the door, from which I had 
an excellent view of the scene and actors. The pro- 
fessor, a tall, stalwart man with a frock-coat, and — 
but I will not stop to describe him, and those who 
have not seen him, may be assured that he is a sort 
of a unique, a nondescript, who would require the 
pencil of a Hogarth, or goose-quill of a Boz, to do him 
justice ; and a sight of whom is certainly worthy of 
some effort ; but I will endeavor to give some slight 
idea of the deportment of this highly refined, and ex- 
ceedingly intellectual, gentleman^ in a factory board- 
ing-house. He was vehemently holding forth to three 
girls, one of them the inmate of a neighboring tene- 
ment, when I entered. 

" Now, ladies," said he, shoAving his teeth, and rubbing 
his hands together, and then wringing them, and twist- 
ing them all manner of ways; "now, ladies, only 
think — two shillings — only tAVO shillings for a ticket, 
which will admit you to a whole course of my lectures 
— did you ever see any thing so cheap m your life — 
now you will go, won't you now ? " 

'' I have been once to your lectures," rephed M., 
'' and I don't care about going again." 

" When did you go 7 " asked the gentleman. 

" When you lectured in the Methodist meeting- 
house," was her reply. 

'- Oh, that was just after 1 had been burned out ; I 
had lost almost all my things then — had n't half so 
many as I 've got now. Now I know you'd like to go, 
and see my new pictures. Now. should n't you 7 " and 
he showed his teeth again, in what he intended should 



94 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND, 

be a most winning manner, and wrung his hands with 
renewed energy. 

"I do not care about going." returned M. 

'•Well, these ladies will go, now I know they will," 
said he, turning to the other two, and the ivory was 
most bountifully displayed; "only think, ladies, only 
two shillings, for a whole course — there could n't be 
any thing cheaper now, could there? Why, the old 
witch there, Madame Adolph, asks you half a dollar 
for telling your fortunes ; doing nothing only jest tell- 
ing your fortunes ; and when you go to the circus, you 
have to give twenty-five cents. Now you see I don't 
charge but two shillings for a whole course of six lec- 
tures ; only think now, not fourpence an evening, and 
you'll get some ideas now that you '11 never get rid of 
as long as you live. " 

" Oh dear ! how dry I am, talking so much — won't 
you hand me some sweetened water, ma'am ? — have it 
pretty sweet, ma'am. I took three dollars over to 
Mrs. H.'s, and didn't have to talk half so long as I 
have here ; only think now, only jest two shillings, for 
six lectures, and you '11 get some ideas that will last 
you always — two shillings, that's always my price." 

" How many are there in your class ? " asked B. 

" Four or five hundred, ma'am — why they come 
from all the houses along here, the landladies and all, 
ma'am. I have six or eight from some of the houses, 
and did n't have to talk half so long as I have here. — 
Yes, ma'am, I 've got four or five hundred, ma'am." 

" Then you've got enough without me," replied she, 
flouncing out of the room. 

" Oh stop, ma'am," cried he, following her so swift- 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 95 

ly that he forgot to show his teeth, and rub his hands, 
'' stop, ma'am — there '11 be plenty of room ; you won't 
be at all crowded, ma'am ; " but she was already out 
of sight, and hearing. 

" Well, ladies," said he, as he returned to the room, 
not in the least disconcerted, and showing his teeth, 
and rubbing his hands, as amiably as ever, " now you 
will go, won't you 7 — you two may go for fifty cents. 
T put it down so low because you, ma'am," said he, 
turning to M., 'Miave patronized me before. Oh 
dear, how tired I am, talking, and dry too," he added, 
drinking a timibler full of molasses and water, which 
looked as though, in compliance with his request to 
have it "pretty sweet," it was about '-half and half." 

" Now, ma'am," he recommenced, after drawing a 
long breath, "you see how cheap 1 put you — that's be- 
cause you patronized me before, and I do really want 
you to see my new scenery, you can't think how splen- 
did it is — I know you '11 never repent it as long as you 
live, and you see how cheap I put you — that 's because 
you went before, ma'am. You and this lady may go 
for fifty cents ; only twenty-five cents apiece — did you 
ever see anything cheaper, ma'am] " 

" I do not care about going," replied M. 

"Well now, ma'am, you'd better go. I know you 
will like — you can't help it — every body likes my 
lectures that go to hear 'em," and he grinned again, 
and rubbed his hands, and poured out some more mo- 
lasses and water. 

" Oh dear, my lungs are sore talking so long. I '11 
tell you what I '11 do, ma'am ; if you '11 get three of 
your friends to come with you — any three you choose 



96 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

— I 'II let you have a ticket that will admit four per- 
sons for a dollar ; that '11 let you in for nothing, ma'am. 
I '11 call you nobody, ma'am — that 's because you patro- 
nized me before, ma'am — and I do want you to see my 
new pictures ; did you ever have a better offer than 
that, ma'am 7 Only think, you '11 get all yours for 
nothing — did you ever see any thing cheaper in your 
life — now you will go — won't you now?" and he 
grinned again, and sipped some more molasses and 
water. 

" Why now, madam," said he, turning from M. to 
the ' stranger girl,' " if you '11 only come, you '11 see 
things that you never saw in all you life before ; the 
sun, and moon, and planets, and eclipses and the little 
insects magnified as big as a hoss, ma'am, and you '11 
see the great comet, with a great tail to it — and the 
eclipses come on, and go off, jest as if you was away 
up in the sky — and you'll see the moon, with her 
sharp horns, and how she looks when she is magni- 
fied — and you '11 see the sun to be inhabited jest like 
this earth — folks there fifty miles high — and the dark 
spots — them are the shadders, and you '11 see the 
mountains — and a little grain of sand magnified as big 
as a goose egg — now you will go — this lady '11 tell 
you that I speak the truth — she 's patronized me before, 
and I 'm well known here, ma'am ; you will go, won't 
you now?" and he grinned again, and twisted his 
hands together, and then drank some more molasses 
and water. 

"I will go, if M. will go with me," she replied. 

''Oh, she will go, won't you now?" said he, turn- 
ing to M., " only fifty cents for you two, and if you'll 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 97 

get two more, you may all go for a dollar — T '11 call 
you nobody, ma'am, that 's because you patronized me 
before, when I lectured at the Methodist meeting-house 
— did you ever see any thing cheaper — and here 's my 
books — only a ninepence a piece, if you '11 all go to 
the lectures — full of pictures — only look here — and 
here 's the very things that you will see — all in a book, 
that you can carry home to show to your friends, and 
then keep it forever — see here 's a drop of water mag- 
nified — got twelve thousand living creatures in it, and 
all of 'em different — twelve thousand, ma'am, and I 
don't know how many more — and here 's a fly with 
five hundred eyes, all over his body — and here 's the 
animals in vinegar, ma'am, as big as a goat, with horns 
to 'em, and you '11 see 'em sticking their horns into 
one another — and here 's the little things that bite and 
torment you so," said he, turning to a flea, I presume, 
and he rubbed his hands, and showed his teeth, and 
drank some more molasses aud water. '' My lungs 
are really sore talking so much. I did not talk quar- 
ter so long at Mrs. H.'s. and I took three dollars there 
— now you will go, won't you ? what 's two shillings? 
jest nothing at all. I know you make good wages, 
ma'am, and fifty cents if you will both go, and only 
a dollar if you will get three more — that 's because 
you patronized me before — and I do really want you 
to see my pictures, ma'am — now you may get any one 
to go with you that you're a' mind to — a beau, if you 
have one— have you got one ? if you have, just bring 
him with you, and you can set there together — and 
you '11 see the eclipses — the eclipse of the moon — and 
the great shadder will come on to it, that 's the shadder 
9 



98 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

of the sun; now you will go, won't you? You got 
any beau to bring with you, hey 7 " and he displayed 
the ivory more lavishly than ever, and rubbed his 
hands with tenfold ardor, and then he drank again at 
the molasses and water. Just then he happened to 
espy me, and, with a fell swoop, he pounced upon 
what he thought would be a new disciple. 

''Now you will go, won't you, ma'am ?"and he grinned 
till his mouth extended from one ear to the other '• only 
think it will be only two shillings for six lectures, most 
entertaining things you ever heard of, you could n't 
spend your time more agreeably. Now there 's Mr. 
W. come here to lecture, but he 's got to go away again, 
because my lectures have put his completely down. I 
haven't a word to say against him; he's a clever 
man enough, but he ha'n't got any tact — now you will 
go and hear mine, won't you, ma'am? " 

" I cannot," was the decided reply. 

" Why, Avhat is the reason ? " said he. 

" I have got four looms to attend to," said I, after 
endeavoring to think of some other reason. 

"Well, ma'am, these lectures will be in the evening 
you know," and he grinned most graciously upon me, 
and then he rubbed his hands again, and sipped some 
more molasses and water. 

" I have many engagements for the evening," I re- 
plied, " besides being usually very much fatigued." 

" What do you do, ma'am? do you write? Do you 
write for the Lowell Offering ? " 

" Sometimes," was the cool reply. 

"Well how much do they give you? how much do 
you make ? as much as two hundred dollars a year — 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 99 

and you 've got now a thousand dollars in the bank as 
likely as not — and you 've got a mind, ma'am. Now 
it 's of no use for those folks that have n't any minds, 
to try to learn any thing — but you 've got a mind, ma'- 
am, (in a whining sing-song tone.) God has given us 
faculties, which we ought to improve — immortal souls 
which will never die, and we should cultivate our minds 
by becoming acquainted with the wonderful works of na- 
ture, spread every where around us," — but just then he 
caught a glimpse of another transient visitor, who had 
entered the door, and, darting at her, he again went 
through with his evolutions. 

But I will weary my reader no longer — it may suf- 
fice to say that M. and one more of our boarders con- 
sented to go, to get rid of him. But he entreated of 
her to use her influence with her other fellow-boarders, 
whom he deeply regretted that he could not see, and 
then after promising — no threatening — to make us 
anothet visitation at some meal time, when we should 
be in, he drained the pitcher of the molasses and water, 
put on his farcAvell grin, pocketed his cash, and rubbed 
his hands together till he was out of the house. 



100 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



FACTORY ROMANCE. 

Factory Girls.— A rich southern man, on a visit to this city, happened 
to find at work in one of the factories, a beautiful girl, the perfection of his 
ideal, to whom he at length was introduced, and finding her all he desired, 
by the consent of her friends, and amid the congratulations of many, she 
became his blushing bride, and has gone to preside over his home at the 
sunny South, The realities and romances of the factories are many and 
interesting. — Loicell Vox Populi. 

The Lowell Factory Girls afford a pretty constant theme of discourse for 
certain newspaper paragraph makers. The public are quite frequently 
favored with remarkable statements and romantic stories concerning them. 
A few days ago we had an account of a famous joint-stock company, which 
was about to be formed among them, to carry on a great female cotton fac- 
tory, by and between themselves ; all probably to be heads, presidents, di- 
rectors and company, agents, operatives, &c. That story and the one above, 
after having gone the rounds of the papers, will turn out to be, one just as 
true as the other. — Boston Traveller. 

Miss Irene Nichols, daughter of Mr. Nathaniel Nichols, of Monmouth, 
Kennebec county, while at work in a factory in Dorchester, Ms., some few 
years since, was offered very liberal wages to go to Mexico, and engage in 
a factory just established there. She, with eight others, accepted the offer- 
While there, she became acquainted with Herrera, the present revolting 
and successful general, with whom she contracted marriage. She made a 
visit to her friends in Maine, last summer, during which, she received fre- 
quent letters from Herrera. She left here in July or August last, for Mex- 
ico, via New York, where she obtained a license, and was united in mar- 
riage to Gen. Herrera, by his representative, the general not being able to 
leave Mexico— a step rendered necessary, as the parties were both Protes- 
tants, and could not be married in Mexico, a Catholic country. Herrera is 
now President of Mexico, having his head-quarters at the national palace 
in the city, and this Kennebec " factory girl " now " revels in the halls of 
the Montezumas." Gen. Herrera is of German extraction, and we are 
given to understand is an ardent admirer of the institutions of this country, 
and would not be opposed to the union of Mexico with the United Slates. 
A society, extensive in its ramifications, already exists in Mexico, with a 
view to the accomplishment of such a project. — Kennebec Journal. 

The Presidentess of the Mexican Republic, by which we mean the wife 
of Gen. Herrera, now President, was once a factory girl at an establishment 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 101 

in Mexico, where the General saw and loved her. Her name is Irene 
Nichols, daughter of Mr. Nathaniel Nichols, of Monmouth, Kennehec 
county, Me. This news will create a prodigious sensation at Lowell.— 
Exchatige paper. 

These stories, as the Boston Traveller asserts, are 
going the rounds of the papers ; but we do not fall in 
with his insinuation, that they are not true. Now we 
happen to sit every day at table beside Madam Herre- 
ra's cousin Charley, and he sold us the very gown that 
we now wear, and we know that he is a reality, a 
stubborn fact ; and Irene is a reality as well as a 
romance. She may be fairy-like, but she is not a 
fairy. She may be moonshiny, but she is not moon- 
shine. She may have bewitched, but she is not a 
witch — we mean that she is not one of the old-fash- 
ioned sort, and does not ride a broomstick. She is 
not a sorceress, and has excited no sorcery but that by 
which thousands of our New England girls could raise 
themselves to the ^' climax of woman's glory," if they 
only could bring the grandees of other nations within 
the influence of their magic. Who supposes that 
Irene is not superior to any other woman who ever 
trod the halls of the Montezumas — those blood-craving 
monsters, whose most enduring monuments are piles of 
tens of thousands of human skulls. We will not except 
even her, the beautiful and beloved preserver of Fer- 
nando Cortez. And Avho envies Irene ? Is the palace 
of Mexico a more comfortable home than she might 
easily have found in Yankee-land? Does she find 
there the thousand little comforts which here she 
thought necessaries ? Do they have commodes, and 
9* 



102 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

workstands, and spoolstands, and tape-measures, and 
finger-nail brushes? And do they have sleigh-rides, 
" with a band of music sounding through the air? " 

And is it as secLire a home ? Do not the ghosts of 
the Aztecs and the Toltecs visit the halls of their 
fathers ? And if not, are there not dungeons beneath 
the halls of those splendid mansions, where Irene and 
her beloved general may yet drink the cup of bitter- 
ness? for ''a breath may fell them as a breath has 
raised." 

And that other Southron, who found here the ^^heau 
ideaV of his fancy, why should we doubt it with the 
Boston Traveller? Verily, he never has travelled 
through the mills of Lowell, or he would know that 
here every man might be suited to his taste, provided 
he were willing to see the same beauties and excellen- 
ces in a Lowell factory girl that he could espy in 
another lady of more fortunate circumstances. 

And this prodigious sensation that the last editor 
anticipates in Lowell, has not been the result of these 
astonishing marriages. Indeed we see less astonish- 
ment expressed than in the papers of other places. 
Perhaps a few romantic misses in their teens may 
dream of being queens in Oregon, princesses in Wis- 
consin, and chieftainesses in Texas, but the light of a 
few bright snow-blinding days will banish these vis- 
ions, and they will dream again, as Irene dreamed 
before she went to Mexico, of a home where 

*' The banks they are furnished with bees, 

Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 
The grottoes are shaded with trees, 

And the hills are white over with sheep ; 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 103 

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, 

What strains of wild melody flow, 
How the nightingales warble their loves 

From the thickets of roses that blow." 

Let 113, in imagination, now go back to the youthful 
home of Irene, and follow her thence until her depart- 
ure for Mexico. 

It is a large brown house, poking its front into the 
very highway, and has a long sloping roof behind,' 
which almost touches the ground, and does in fact de- 
scend to the hogshead of ley. It has a little forest of 
hen-coops, and granaries, and pig-pens, hay-stacks, 
and well-sweeps, behind and beside it, and directly in 
front, '' the other side o' the way," is a huge barn, with 
all the appurtenances of cow-yard, watering-trough, 
cattle-shed, chaise-house, "and all." But though this 
is not the abode of taste, it is most certainly that of 
comfort, plenty, and no small degree of intelligence. 
Irene is the pet, the beauty, the favorite of the house- 
hold, and all its advantages and privileges are hers. 
But thoughts of another home will frequently steal 
into her mind, cherished and consulted as she is in this. 
And now let us go, with all the audacity we can as- 
sume, into the home of Irene's imagination — that 
where she shall queen over him who loves to own her 
sway, and Avhere she in return gladly submits to one 
whom she loves. Well, here we go, like a nervous 
maiden under the manipulations of a Mesmerist, and 
here is Irene's own homestead. We are ''away down 
East, in the State of Maine." Around us are forests 
of pines, who lift up their evergreen heads in silent and 
constant worship. 



104 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

There is not a house in view, except Irene's, but in 
the distance is a small building, looking, for all the 
world, like a sentry-box, and which is, in fact, one of 
those railroad depots which Dickens describes," express- 
ing the wonder where the folks came from who got in, 
and went to who got out. If those pine trees to the 
left were not quite so thick we could see the spires of a 
village, but as it is we must be content with Irene's 
domicil. It is painted as white as — as — a sheet of 
paper, and the door is as green — as she was when she 
dreamed of it. There is a little front yard, about six- 
teen by twenty, for OLir country folks always econo- 
mize land in front of their dwellings. It is fenced in 
by pine palisades, painted white and green, and put 
together in triangles and all sorts of diagrams. The 
gate is just large enough to admit you, and a Daniel 
Lambert would have to leap the wicket, or go round 
to the end door. You walk into the little path, and, 
like a magnanimoLis foe, you press your clothes to your 
sides that you may not brush the heads off the mari- 
golds, " lady's delights," and bachelor's buttons, who 
seem inclined to dispute your way. 

You look up, and the five windows — two for the 
parlor, two for the parlor-chamber, and one for the en- 
try over the door — these five windows, with their five 
white curtains, all drawn down to the very sill, look 
as if they were in their shrouds. But we will pluck 
up courage, and ascend the pine doorsteps. There is 
no bell — Irene never even dreamed of that ; and she 
thinks, as her grandmother does, that knuckles were 
made before knockers, if not for knockers, and here we 
stand thumping fifteen or twenty minutes, and just 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 105 

as we are about to give up the front entrance, and, like 
Bunyan's bad folks, get in some other way, Irene 
comes and opens to us, apologizing with all her might 
because the door was locked and did not open of itself; 
and telling how busy she has been cutting out her hus- 
band's pantaloons, up in the back chamber, for she 
never learned the trade, and is not accustomed to the 
work. Her cheeks are as red, her eyes as bright, and 
her step as light and true as in the first days of girl- 
hood. If it is a warm day she wears a pink calico 
dress, with a white cape and black silk apron. If 
cold, her gown is of ''green Circassian" with the same 
appendages; for, if we are at all reasonable in our 
hour, Irene's housework is all done up. 

Well, here we are in the front entry, with the best 
stairs right in our face and eyes — no, before them, 
with a little narrow strip of red and green carpeting in 
the middle, reminding us of the striped ribbon which 
she puts straight over the crown of her nicely kept 
straw bonnet, for its winter trimming. Irene shows 
us into the parlor, and ties up the white curtains 
with little red woollen tassels, and now we can see 
what is evidently and nicely " kept for show. " — 
There is a strip carpet to examine. It is made of 
the best remnants of old coats, and overcoats, and 
waistcoats, and the dark groundwork is relieved 
by strips of red and green and yellow flannel. That 
bright scarlet strip, which enlivens each stripe, cannot 
be mistaken for anything but the old red broadcloth 
cloak which her great-grandmother used to wear. — 
And now for the rug : it matches well with the carpet, 
and well it may, for both are the production of the 



106 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

same fair hand. It is made of thrumbs — has a dark- 
brown groinid, a black fringe, and the figure is a — Ave 
can't tell what — but it looks like a huge red strawberry 
blossom, for it has five leaves with a yellow spot in 
the centre. On each side is a monstrous green burdock 
leaf, and in the four corners are four blue stars. — 
The chairs are of wood, painted black, and highly 
varnished, with a thin flowering of gilt at the top. In 
the corner is a rocking-chair, with a cushion made of 
odd bits of ribbon, and these are all visible mementoes 
of Irene's taste and industry. The room is hung with 
paper, which might well pass for small-figured bright- 
colored calico; and over the fireplace is a "mourning 
piece," representing a short chubby redcheeked girl, in 
a short black gown, with a black shawl over her head, 
and holding in one hand a large white handkerchief 
as a symbol of grief The other arm is resting upon an 
Egyptian sarcophagus, on which are inscribed the names 
of all Irene's departed relatives, and written with the 
schoolmaster's best pen. There is no retirement, and 
from a hundred windows in the background intruding 
or protruding heads might witness the pharisaical grief 
of the mourner. Opposite this is the mirror, which con- 
sists of a small glass, with a picture above it of a fine 
lady and a superfine gentleman, and a magnificent 
house, both connected by one frame, which consists of 
alternate semi-cubes of black and gilt. On another 
side of the room are all the " Presidents of these Uni- 
ted States" hung in a rov/, and Daniel Webster hangs 
with them, for Irene's husband thinks if he is not 
President, he ought to be. In the fireplace are some 
bright brass andirons, covered with white muslin, and 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 107 

SO are the tops of the shovel and tongs. And on the 
mantel-shelf is a row of those good folks who rest in 
the Egyptian sarcophagus — that is, their '' shades," 
which shades are cut from white paper like children's 
horses, and put in relief against a bit of black paste- 
board. These are interspersed with small shells which 
Irene collected when she rode to the beach with her 
beau ; and in the very middle of the shelf is a wax 
wonder with a glass over it. 

Will Irene let us go into the kitchen ? Yea ; for she 
prideth herself much upon its neatness and good man- 
agement. It is neatly papered and painted, has half- 
curtains to the windows made of the relics of an Eng- 
lish gingham gown, and is plentifully supplied with 
braided mats. Here, also, is the black monument of 
Irene's only voluntary transgression against her fa- 
ther's will, in the shape of one of ''James's patent 
stoves," for there are but three things in the world at 
which the old gentleman has sworn enmity, and these 
are, Universalists, Federalists, and cooking-stoves. — 
Still the old gentleman cannot deny that Irene has a 
comfortable room, notwithstanding no pleasant blaze 
greets him from an open hearth. 

At the end of the kitchen is Irene's sleeping-room, 
but so many gentlemen are with us that we will not 
go in — still we cannot help seeing through the open 
door a cradle, painted red without and blue within, 
with a little patchwork covering, made of that piece of 
" Job's troubles" which she never had patience to en- 
large to its originally destined dimensions. 

Irene is more than willing that we should descend 
into her cellar, and we do not wonder after we get 



108 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

there. It is so cool, so clean and orderly, (a thousand 
times pleasanter than the dungeons of the Montezu- 
mas,) and if it were only a little hghter, we would 
willingly spend the whole of a summer's day in it. — 
Here is a nice arch for potatoes and all other freezea- 
ble commodities, and a score of exhausted flour bar- 
rels, filled with apples, and pears, and what not, and 
there is a beef barrel and a pork barrel, and a soap 
barrel, and a quintal of codfish, and a tin cake-chest, 
in which is still a large proportion of the dress loaf of 
bridal cake. 

Now that we have been down stairs, we are not 
contented without also going up stairs. So we ascend, 
over that same strip of narrow carpeting, and now we 
are in the upper entry. The most conspicuous thing 
here is the fancy curtain hung at the window — made 
of the sprigged muslin dress in which her mother was 
married, and it is gathered and fringed and looped in 
all manner of fantastic directions. In the front cham- 
ber is — all that is necessary. Here is a white toilette, 
with a pink cushion upon it, and there is a mat before 
it, made of black cloth figured over with little pieces 
of all sorts of things, looking like a mob of Arabic, 
Sanscrit, and Chinese characters mingled together in 
confusion worse confounded. And here is the nice 
soft feather-bed which Irene had earned at sixteen, and 
which was then sewed up in a pair of strong sheets 
that it might be kept unsoiled for this place and occa- 
sion. 

And Irene blushes when we open the door where 
she is making her first attempt to become "the ninth 
part of a man," but we think, as we look at the things 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 109 

which he there, that it is not so bad for a wife to 
make them as to wear them. 

And now we must go ; but Irene must show her 
flowers. Her rose geranium in a great blue waterpail, 
and her bridal rose in a cracked beanpot, and her cal- 
low in a broken pitcher, and this great thing she says 
is her " chrystianthum." Divers little applicants for a 
kind look and word lift up their green heads from 
tumblers and mugs, but we must go. As we pass out, 
Irene calls our attention to the great lilac, and the rose- 
tree, and the mammoth peony which suffered so in the 
last thunder-storm, and we must not forget the sun- 
flowers, and the prince's feathers, to say nothing of 
the tansy in the corners of the yard, with its neighbors 
of catnip, spearmint, peppermint, and a dozen other 
mints. 

And which of Irene's beaux do we suppose her 
bright dreams metamorphosed into a husband 7 Let 
us take the same liberty with her heart that we have 
with her house, and see in Memory's gallery what 
portraits Fancy painted there. Although Irene has 
been a rustic belle, yet we shall have time to go 
through with the list of her lovers, for they are never 
" Legion " in the breast of any true-hearted woman. 

The first is that awkward ungainly boy, with limbs 
like a long-armed ape, and a face which has a mam- 
moth handle. The sallow, sunken cheek and thin 
compressed lips indicate thought and determination, 
but present no fascinations to a young, light-hearted girl. 
The high, projecting brow is the only feature which 
has claims to beauty, for the bright eye is sunken in 
his head, and oft cast down to the ground. He is 
10 



110 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

usually silent and reserved, but the beauty of Irene 
has wrought a magic spell upon him, and one day, as 
she opens her grammar in the first school hour, she 
finds a poetical eff'usion, commencing — 

" In ihine eye is beauty bright, 
Revellings of magic light," 

and so on through twelve lines, which not only have 
the merit of rhyming harmoniously, but the initials of 
them compose an acrostic upon her own true name. 
Irene looks at it again and again, and at the name in- 
scribed in full length at the bottom, for there are none 
less sly than your really bashful boys when they have 
once screwed their courage to the acting point. The 
verses have all the appliances of fair paper, beautiful 
chirography, and, though Irene is not much of a critic, 
she knows that orthography and punctuation are well 
attended to. A shy feeling, like the curlings of a gen- 
tle mist, steals over the heart of Irene, and she looks 
upon the paper as a magic, scroll. In her presence the 
awkward boy becomes still more ungainly; he blushes 
if she smiles upon him, and his brow lowers if she 
smiles upon another. She finds it more of an eftbrt to 
be merry when he is by, and wishes she could feel 
as much at ease with him as with handsome Bill P., 
or gallant Jim S., or witty Tom K. 

The boys all like Irene; they are all willing to 
wait upon her to huskings, and see her safe home from 
spelling-schools — ah but the awkward boy. She 
might stay at home all her life for want of his invita- 
tions, and the bears might catch her any dark night 
spite of his assistance. Still that subtle freemasonry, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. Ill 

which makes lovers known to each other, tells Irene 
that he loves her far better than do Tom, or Jim, or 
Bill, and she knows that thus far she loves him better 
than them. But then all the girls laugh at him, and 
the boys say he is a noddy, and he cannot run, nor 
dance, nor skate, nor play ball, nor do any thing so 
well as they, if indeed he can do them at all ; but then 
he can parse, and do sums as well as the master, and 
write acrostics, which even the master cannot do, and 
Irene is fully aware of his intellectual superiority. But 
head and heart are not all the requisites for winning 
the sum total of a young girl's love, and after a few 
seasons of wavering between hope and fear, the awk- 
ward boy is resolved to end his suspense by a positive 
declaration to Irene, and he is refused. She has too 
little love, or independence, or both, and when she has 
cast away the truest heart that ever beat for her, she 
is aware of its value. Henceforth the boy's heart is 
steeled against the tender passion — all women are self- 
ish, heartless flirts and fools. He devotes himself to 
his books, and as time passes on, his name is enrolled 
among the distinguished of his country, and Irene could 
boast that she once refused the learned man. 

But these things usually bring a meet retaliation. 
Irene does not find that she is regarded with any 
marked preference by the beaux who once admired her, 
and her own experience is too recent to allow of a sec- 
ond entrance to her heart. She becomes choice and 
fastidious, and is called proud and unfeeling. 

At length a new minister comes to the place, a young, 
graceful and interesting man. Irene's beauty, anima- 
tion, and indiiference to the beaux, attracts his atten- 



112 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

tion. If he exliibits any preference, it is for her. His 
attentions are only those of a perfect gentleman, hut 
Irene receives them Vv^ith a demureness Avhich implies 
a fear of an affection of the heart. She admires the 
pastor, hut then she thinks she is not accomplished and 
religious enough to suit him exactly ; and when the 
impression of her beauty has passed away, he will see 
it too, and it would be better that she should know it 
first. She congratulates herself upon her coyness when 
the minister brings his new bride to the parish, a very 
learned lady, to whom he has been engaged many 
years ; one who, it is rumored, reads in Latin, and 
talks in Latin, and, it is supposed, thinks in Latin, and 
Irene shrewdly guesses that she will keep house in 
Latin too. 

Again time passes on, and Irene is not married. At 
length a railroad is to be surveyed ; and what fine city 
gentlemen come down into the woods to lay it out. 
There is one among them a perfect Apollo in figure, an 
Adonis in attractions, and a Beau Brummel in manner 
and dress — at least, so he appears to Irene. He wears 
such nice gloves, such polished boots, such a gold chain, 
such superfine broadcloth ; and then his shaggy great- 
coat is only to be matched by his whiskers, and 
then his dogskin cap, with tassels hanging down — oh, 
who can tell how many hearts are hanging at the end 
of them. With the most graceful manners his particu- 
lar attentions are devoted to Irene, and Rumor soon 
reports that he is ''courting " the rustic beauty. Irene 
pouts prettily, and denies it, for the elegant surveyor 
has never ^^ committed himself ^^ in words, but when 
a woman fully trusts she is willing to exchange hearts 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 113 

without the word and the bond. Those are for matches 
where love is not at the foundation of the union — for 
the worldly, calculating and suspicious. And, if peo- 
ple suspect that he is courting her from his open atten- 
tions, what would they think if they knew of all the 
secret, subtle influences by which he has impressed her 
with the belief. Then the envious girls begin to won- 
der that Irene will place so much confidence in a stran- 
ger, and demure, prudish old ladies give her their 
excellent advice, and tliis brings out Irene as the 
earnest public advocate of the stranger. If doubts will 
sometimes steal across her own mind, they only serve 
to impress his image more intensely on her heart, and 
she still goes on "in the full confidence of faith un- 
spoken." But the surveying is over — the gentlemen 
depart. Irene is tendered a beautiful annual in the 
most gracious manner by her attentive friend, which 
she refuses sulkily, with the sarcastic assurance that 
she needs no memento of him ; and then he goes to 
some other village, to amuse himself with some other 
"ladie fair," and go headfirst, that is, capjirst^ into the 
sanctuary of her affections. 

But a change has now come over the spirit of Irene. 
She mourns ; not for the lover, but " for the love which 
has passed like the dew from the new-blown rose," 
and she feels conscious that few hearts mourn with 
her for her folly. The girls are glad, and the beaux not 
sorry, and poor Irene tries hard ' to hold up her head 
beneath the mortification which weighs it down. She 
is glad to embrace an opportunity which offers to leave 
home, and go to the factory, for she cares not whether 
she ever sees a half-a-dozen men again or not. But 
10* 



114 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

the young and healthy cannot always droop. She re- 
covers in a new place her spirits, her sprightliness and 
buoyancy, and none is so much admired for animation, 
beauty and energy as Irene. She would be a belle, but 
there are no beaux. The first overseer is a married 
man, the second one engaged, and the third but a boy. 
It is said that prisoners, who have nothing else to inter- 
est their feelings, will learn to love the spiders which 
spin cobwebs in their cells. And superior girls, when 
debarred all other society, will sometimes place their 
affections upon clowns and ninnies. 

Irene almost gets in love with the third hand, and 
he is somewhat fascinated with her, but he finally gives 
her the cold shoulder, and returns to a pretty little girl 
who is his first love. Irene treats it all as a gay joke, 
for her heart was not really in the affair. She has some 
designs of supplanting the favorite of the second-hand, 
but when she really seest hat her sly coquetry is taking 
effect, and that she may be successful, honorable and 
praiseworthy motives induce her to undo what she has 
already done. But a mill life seems inane and tedious 
to her ; she does not wish to return home, and is it 
strange that she embraced the opportunity which 
offered, when they were recruiting for emigrant factory 
girls, of changing Yankee-land for Mexico? 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 115 



WOMAN. 



Woman's Mission. Woman's Sphere, Woman's Rights, 
Woman as she should be — and many similar phrases, 
are titles of books which have within a few years is- 
sued from the press. I have read none of them ; for I 
am one of those who have more time for reflection, 
than for the perusal of books ; but the feeling which 
has prompted so many of our own, and of the other 
sex, to write and speak of woman's duty and influ- 
ence, cannot but be shared by all of us who have 
heads to think, and hearts to feel. 

It cannot be thought strange, that in this country, 
where the rights of man are so vehemently asserted, 
those of woman should also receive some attention; 
and that the questions should arise, whether her mis- 
sion is duly performed — her sphere the only one for 
which she is fitted — her rights appreciated — and 
whether she is indeed " as she should be." Man is 
every where lord of creation : here, he is lord also of 
himself; and while he now takes a higher stand than 
he has ever claimed before, woman has not risen in a 
corresponding degree. Here, every man may share in 
the government of his country ; but woman is here, as 
elsewhere, the governed ; and if her natural rights and 
duties are the same as his, she is also the oppressed. 
She has here no privilege which she might not enjoy 
under the enlightened monarch s of Europe, and no 
distinction but that of being the mothers and daughters, 
the wives and sisters, of freemen. Several kingdoms 



116 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

are now governed by females ; and probably as well 
governed as they would be by those of the other sex ; 
and thus it is evident, that woman is capable of being 
trained to reason, and to rule : but it is an important 
query, whether this is her most appropriate and con- 
genial sphere 7 

Mrs. Sigourney has most beautifully expressed an 
opinion, which I believe to be true. I repeat not her 
words — but her sentiment is this ; — that while the 
sexes might exchange occupations — while man might 
be taught to steal around the chamber of the sick, and 
perform the quiet duties of domestic life, woman might 
also be taught to sway the senate, and lead her coun- 
try's armies to battle ; but violence would be done to 
the nature of each. Yes, man might be taught to bend 
his energies to the still duties of household life ; but 
his spirit would pant for a wider sphere, and his mind 
would writhe and chafe beneath its shackles ; and 
woman might engage in noise and strife, but the over- 
tasked heart would yearn for a humbler lot, and pre- 
maturely exhaust itself in the violence of self-contest. 

The Bible, and every ancient tradition, has awarded 
to man the honor of being first created ; but a compan- 
ion and help-meet was needed ; and as he had been 
gifted with an immortal mind, so none but a being des- 
tined to share with him a glorious immortality, could 
call out his affections, and share his sympathies. In 
those feelings and moral sentiments, the exercise of 
which is to constitute his futiu'e happiness, she is fully 
his equal — apparently his superior; for in her they 
exist uncontrolled by those selfish and intellectual 
qualities which fit him to go forward in this earthly 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 117 

existence. But if there be no difference of mind, 
there is a difference of body which must compel her to 
yield to him the palm of superiority. He is made 
more strong, that he may protect and defend; she 
more lovely, that he may be willing to shield and 
guard her ; and that physical difference which, in one 
state of society, makes woman the slave of man, in 
another makes him her Avorshipper. 

Woman has always been obliged to take that station 
in life which man has been pleased to allot her. 
Among savage nations, where those faculties of mind 
in which she equals him have little exercise in either 
sex, she is but little more than a beast of burden ; but 
in those stages of society where refinement, and the 
love of the beautiful, Avere predominant, she has been 
the object of chivalrous adoration. She has been knelt 
to, and worshipped, with all the enthusiasm of gal- 
lantry ; but the same hand Avhich raised her to the 
throne, had power to overturn it, and while she sat 
upon it, it was at his caprice. 

It has been truly said, that Christianity alone has 
truly elevated woman. And how has it done it ? Not 
by infusing any new power into man's mind; but by 
awakening in him the love of the true, the good and 
the just ; by making him sensible of the superiority of 
right over might ; by arousing those holier sympathies 
and desires in which he feels that woman is not indeed 
his inferior ; and should the time come when earth is 
to bear some resemblance of heaven, woman's influ- 
ence will be found to mingle equally with man's, in 
hastening on the era of happiness and love. 

But though in many respects his equal, she will 



118 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

never be like him. Her duties and pleasures must 
always be different. Were the sexes willing to exchange 
places, they could not do it ; and each has been so 
formed, as to enjoy most in a separate sphere. She 
can never obtain his strength and vigor, and some of 
her duties he could not perform, if he wished. Woman 
must be the mother, and that fount of "deep, strong, 
deathless love," has been implanted in her breast, 
which can turn a mother's cares to pleasures. In that 
station where woman is most herself, where her pre- 
dominating qualities have the fullest scope, there she 
is most influential, and most truly worthy of respect. 
But when she steps from her allotted path into that of 
the other sex, she betrays her inferiority, and in a 
struggle would inevitably be subdued. 

It is now asserted, by some, that woman should here 
share in the toils, duties and honors of government ; 
that it is her right; and that it is contrary to the first 
principles of our constitution to deprive her of this 
privilege. 

That woman, if not now capable of doing this, 
might be rendered so by education, cannot be doubted; 
and should our sex rise en masse, and claim the right, 
I see not how it could be denied. But this will never 
be. To be happy, and to contribute to the happiness 
of others, is woman's aim ; and neither of these objects 
would be attained by engaging in party politics. The 
general principles of government, and the welfare of 
her country, should alwa^^s be subjects of interest to 
her. They may occupy part of her thoughts and con- 
versation ; but to become a voter, would be contrary 
to the feelings which she ought principally to cherish. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 119 

and the duties she should never neglect — those of 
home. 

Man, says Lady M. W. Montague, by engrossmg to 
himself the honors of government, " has saved us from 
many cares, from many dangers, and perhaps from 
many crimes." Let woman, with her warm sympa- 
thies, engage in the political wrangle, and the strife 
will not be less bitter. If she go at all upon the battle- 
field, it should be " as (to use an expression of William 
Penn's) the physician goes among the sick — not to 
catch the disease, but to cure it." But to do this she 
must go, not as a partizan, but as a mediator. She 
should endeavor to speak words which would allay 
the wrath of the combatants, and to say to all who 
will listen, "Sirs, ye are brethren." She must stand 
on neutral ground, with the white flag in her hand ; 
for if she show herself upon either side, she may be- 
come the victim of her own violent feelings, if not the 
slave of the perfidious and designing of the other sex. 

Women once madly and unrestrainedly engaged in 
political strife ; and while some^ with the most ardent 
patriotism, preserved their purity and tenderness, others 
became the "Furies of the Guillotine." Even then, 
though nominally as free as the other sex, the stronger 
spirit ruled. They were urged on for a time, and 
when that time was over, they were obliged to yield a 
power which they could not maintain, and which the 
other sex wished to resume. 

But though woman may not personally approach 
the ballot box, or mingle in the caucus, yet she can 
there be represented. Men consider their interests as 
identified with those of their families. They do not 



120 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

vote for themselves alone, but for their mothers, wives, 
and daughters. Females who think at all upon poli- 
tics, usually think as the males of their families do ; 
their sympathies lead them to adopt the opinions of 
those they love best, and the result of elections would 
probably be the same if they were voters. But if 
they are not always represented — if their opinions do 
sometimes differ from those of their male relatives, it 
is well that this difference cannot create more trouble. 
It is well that the bickerings and contentions of the 
club-room and tavern -house, are not to be brought into 
the family circle. It is well that the sounds of "home, 
sweet home," are not to be displaced by bitter words 
and party disputations. Differences of religious opinion 
create enough of discord and misery in family circles ; 
but religion, though mingled with superstition, and 
darkened by bigotry, is religion still. It is the exer- 
cise of the heart's best affections, and no persons can 
embitter the fire-side ^ith religious quarrels, and con- 
ceive themselves following in sincerity the example of 
Him whose mission was peace and love. Political 
feuds would not have as a counteracting influence this 
glaring inconsistency of principles and practice ; and 
may we never take a more active part in them. 

Let woman keep in her own sphere, and she can do 
much for herself, and much for society ; but her influ- 
ence is weakened in proportion as she deviates from 
the true path. Her domestic duties should claim her 
first thoughts ; and then society should receive her un- 
wearied efforts to elevate, to gladden, and to beautify. 
If social evils are to be remedied by reforming public 
opinion, woman's influence, when properly exerted, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 121 

may do much ; and thus they ivill be remedied, if she 
is true to the nature God has given her, and the station 
he has assigned her. She may do this by her influ- 
ence over the rising generation, especially that portion 
of it who will one day be voters, and perhaps rulers of 
their country. Her exertions should be to throw 
around her the sunshine of gentleness and affection, 
and her aim should be 

"To solace, to soften, to cheer, and to bless, 
With the streams of her gushing tenderness." 

But many who think that woman should never in- 
terfere in political affairs, assert that in religious and 
benevolent enterprises she should act publicly and un- 
restrained. If woman had been intended to grace the 
pulpit or the lecturer's desk, I think she would have 
been gifted with a voice more suitable for them, and 
been endowed with less of that delicacy which she 
must now struggle to overcome. Women have ha- 
rangued public audiences, who are to be respected for 
their faithfulness to the dictates of conscience; but 
while my ideas of female duty differ so widely from 
theirs, I cannot admire them, and would not imitate 
them, if I could. 

If a woman is sensible that she has talents which 
might be of service to her country, let her exercise 
them; but in a quiet way. Madame Roland says, 
that in the seclusion of her own chamber were written 
documents which entered into all the cabinets of Eu- 
rope ; and far more influence had those opinions, while 
passing under the sanction of her husband's name, and 
far more noble does Madame Roland appear, than if 
11 



122 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

she had entered the National Assembly, and expressed 
them vocally. 

There are exceptions to all rules, and there may be 
times when woman will do what man could not per- 
form. She may depart from her appropriate sphere, 
and the very novelty of her position will create enthu- 
siasm in her behalf; and the fervency of her feelings 
will excite her on, to deeds requiring the utmost moral 
energy. Yet happy is she, if the thunderbolts she 
launches around, return not upon her own head. Wit- 
ness, for example, Joanne of Arc. 

Many who think woman inferior in every other 
mental capacity, maintain that in literary talent she is 
man's equal. She may be, in some respects, and in 
others his inferior ; but in those departments of litera- 
ture, which have usually been considered highest, she 
appears to be his inferior. We cannot well judge 
from what woman has done, what she is capable of 
doing. Under happier auspices, much might have 
been performed of which she has been deemed incapa- 
ble ; still I do not think that if the literary arena had 
been always as open as it now is, that woman would ever 
have written an Iliad, or a Paradise Lost. When an 
anonymous work appeared, called "Sartor Resartus," 
which evinced much originality and talent, there were 
many conjectures concerning the authorship ; but it 
was never suspected to be the production of a woman ; 
and had the sweet " Songs of the affections " come 
forth into the world unsanctioned by the name of He- 
mans, they would never have been attributed to a 
man. 

Women who now write upon subjects which have 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 123 

heretofore been the exchisive subjects of man's talents, 
do it usually in a more familiar, and sometimes in a 
more beautiful manner. As, for instance, Miss Marti- 
neau upon Political Economy ; and Sir Walter Scott 
declares, that it was Miss Edgeworth who taught him 
to write novels. 

But how great the difference between the sexes, with 
regard to literary talent, can be better decided at some 
future time. It cannot, at all events, be said of a 
woman, that in this respect " she hath done what she 
could." 

Those females who have been blessed with beauty 
of form and face, need not fear that their graces will 
be lessened by mental cultivation. The natural desire 
in our sex to please the other, has often led them to 
adorn their persons at the expense of their minds ; and 
if they have succeeded, they must have pleased men 
who were not worth pleasing. 

Much of the prejudice which even now exists against 
educated females, has probably been caused by the 
fact, that too many literary women have been pedantic, 
assuming, and arrogant. They have laid aside the 
graces of their own sex, without attaining the vigor of 
the other ; but they cannot become men — let them 
therefore not cease to be women. They should cherish 
those feelings, and virtues, which alone can render 
them pleasing, and cultivate those faculties which will 
command respect. 

Yes, woman can climb the Hill of Science, and let 
her go ; let her bind the laurel and the myrtle with the 
roses which already bloom around her brow, and the 
wreath will be more beautiful ; but she should guard 



124 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

well the flowers, lest the evergreens crush or over- 
shadow them, and they wither away, and die. 



ARISTOCRACY OF EMPLOYMENT. 

As I was walking a few days since through one of 
our principal streets, my attention was attracted by 
the size and beauty of some of its principal edifices. 
Within a short distance were several spacious houses 
for public worship, and taste and wealth had been dis- 
played in the erection of buildings of a more private 
character. And then I thought of the vast amount of 
labor which had been employed in the construction of 
that single street. How much of human strength had 
there been worn away, how many sinews there been 
strained to the utmost exertion, and arms been almost 
palsied by excess of toil. 

Yet this was but one of the streets in our city, and 
this city but one of the smaller ones in our Union. 

I thought of this, and I thought no longer of the 
beauty, taste, or wealth which had been manifested, 
but of the labor. 

"The law of labor!" O how prolific a theme of 
thought, and how many the reflections to which it 
probably gives rise in the minds of those incapable of 
expressing their thoughts through the medium of the 
pen. 

The laborer — and who is he? A man, made a 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 125 

little lower than the angels, and stamped with the 
impress of his heavenly Father ; a man and brother to 
him who will not soil, with slightest manual employ- 
ment, his snowy hand, or costly vestment; a man, and 
though too often degraded to a station but little above 
the brute, yet may be, in some future time, the com- 
panion of angels. 

The laborer — and where is he? Wherever the 
beauteous mansion of the rich man greets the admir- 
ing gaze of passing travellers ; wherever the splendid 
temple's lofty dome is reared, and its tapering spire 
springs upward to the sky ; wherever the giant mill- 
wheel groans on its axle, and myriads of wheels, and 
springs, and bands revolve in their lesser circles, there 
has the laborer been. Wherever the amateur displays 
his costly collection of beauties, or the virtuoso the 
curious productions of gifted ones in other lands ; 
wherever the artist displays the inspired creations of 
the pencil or the chisel ; or the poet's strains subdue 
by pathos or excite to rapturous enthusiasm — there 
again, yes, even there, amidst that thrilling beauty, 
has the laborer been. Wherever some lovely paradise, 
some modern Garden of Eden, with its labyrinthine 
walks, its jutting founts, its rare exotics, its sweet per- 
fumes, and costly flowers, are to be seen, there also, 
amidst that choicest haunt of the lover of refined 
amusements, has the dirt-soiled laborer been. Wherever 
the organ's "loud-resounding notes" swell upward 
from the worshipping choir, or the flute's soft tones 
steal gently on the evening breeze, or the harp-strings 
vibrate beneath the touch of the favored child of For- 
tune, there also is the handiwork of the laborer. Not 
11^ 



126 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

more surely is his presence indicated by the humble 
cot which shelters his head from the cold and the 
storm, or the rude couch on which he rests his weary 
limbs, than by the fretted dome of the vast cathedral, 
or the gorgeous splendor of the palace. 

We cannot go where man has created beauty, splen- 
dor, or convenience, but we also find the tokens of toil. 
There is around us proof upon proof in attestation of 
that sentence pronounced upon man; ''In the sweat 
of thy face shalt thou eat bread." 

Yet men strive to evade this law ; they put shackles 
on their brother ; they place over him the task-master, 
then fold their arms and say, " There must be toil, and 
thou shalt be the laborer. My share and thiiie shall 
both be done by thee^ and I will give thee bread, that 
life may not perish in thy sordid frame ; and clothing, 
that thy limbs may not be shrunk by the cold, or 
parched by the heat ; and perad venture I will give thee 
meat that thy strength may continue the longer ; and 
thou mayest have some mean hut, that thou mayest 
rear a grovelling band to toil for my offspring, as thou 
shalt toil for me." And when the laborer says, " Who 
made thee a ruler over me?" Egyptian-like, he smites 
him to the earth. 

Yes, has it not been too often thus — the laborer, 
like one who straggles in some troubled sea, while he 
for whom each nerve is strained stands idly on the 
shore; and when he would leap from those dark 
waters, a blow is given to send him back, and the 
smiter smiles at his own mercy, because he did not 
dash his brains. 

Such has been, in other times and distant places. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 127 

the operation of this universal law ; I say universal, 
for everywhere that man has shown himself a being 
of high endowments, of superior skill, power, and 
sagacity, it has been by labor ; yes, wherever man has 
been himself a creature above the brutes around him, 
and aspiring to a higher dwelling-place than the earth 
which is their home, it is because he has been there 
the laborer. 

Employment is the lot awaiting us all, as we come 
forth into this busy world. The earth is to be tilled ; 
cities, towns and villages to be built ; strong ships are 
to be made, and guided across the deep sea ; there 
must be a ceaseless preparation of food and clothing 
for the unceasing demand for them ; there is ever a 
new generation springing up to be nurtured, and 
taught, and watched, and an old one to be nursed, and 
sheltered, and cared for, till they are laid in the house 
appointed for all — and the living must make that last 
tenement; all this is to be done, and to be always 
doing, and man inust be the laborer. 

There must be ministers, also, to the desire for the 
grand, the holy, and the beautiful ; and the gifted ones 
must go forth amid the less favored crowd, and bear a 
light to gladden their other brethren. 

And he who resists this law, who would make of 
himself and his^ exceptions to this rule — he who would 
go through this world without conferring one benefit 
upon those who have ministered to his wants, and sup- 
plied his necessities, those who have cherished his in- 
fancy, and preserved his maturer life — he who would 
lay down a useless existence in an unhonored grave 
— he who would do this, would fain believe himself a 



128 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



being to whom the faithful observers of Heaven's 
mandate should bow, and cringe, and fawn, and kneel, 
and thank for the listless smile, and pray for the privi- 
lege to watch and wait around him ! 

Such has been, and such still is, in some places, the 
observance of the law of labor. True, there are other 
spots on this wide earth where men meet, as in that 
long past time, but with a holier "^ purpose, and join 
with one heart and tongue to build their tower, or do 
whatever else necessity or choice may dictate. But 
ere long the aristocracy will arise ; those will spring 
from the mass, who would look on and see the vast 
machine in motion, and enjoy the benefits of its revo- 
lution, yet never put their own shoulder to the wheel ; 
and who think, by this disregard of the great law im- 
posed upon all, to purchase an immunity of privileges, 
of which they would also deprive the laborer. 

We do not see so much of this as many do. There 
is here but little of the aristocracy, but few of those for 
whom all must be done, but who will do nothing in 
return ; we have but little of this aristocracy, but we 
have the aristocracy of employment. It is perhaps a 
new phrase, but is it not an expressive one ? We 
know of the aristocracy of other coimtries. We know 
that with all its evils it has some redeeming influences. 
We can conceive of the stimulating power which the 
aristocracy of birth can produce. The desire to be- 
queath untarnished the glorious name inherited from 
his ancestors, may deter from many a deed of sin and 
meanness the proud owner of this inheritance ; or the 
wish to add one other leaf to the laurel wreath which 
has been placed by fate upon his brow, may spur the 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. ' 129 

wearer to some glorious act of bravery, of generosity, 
or mental exertion. All this may result from the aris- 
tocracy of birth. We have it not here : from its ex- 
cusable traits, and its inexcusable principles, we are 
happily free. 

But we have aristocracy. That of wealth, though 
more excusable here than that of birth is elsewhere, is 
not all we have. I say more excusable, because here 
wealth must be the toil- won portion of its possessor. 
No law of entail ensures estates to a privileged few ; 
butaJl must work, or fail to enjoy. But we have what 
is more tyrannical, more foolish if possible, than any 
other aristocracy — that of employ7?ient. 

" What does he or she do for a living? " is almost 
the first question usually asked of a person, after an 
introduction. Whenever the employment is indicative 
of superior talent, merit or industry in the operative, 
of whatever class, there is good reason why honor 
should be the willing tribute paid to the individual. 
Whenever "that large boon, a nation's care," is en- 
trusted to the man whom his countrymen have deemed 
most worthy of the charge, the deference due to the sta- 
tion, and the merit and talent which have procured 
him that station, should accompany the emoluments, 
trials, cares and pleasures which must also be his. 

There is, there ever must be, some aristocracy. 
Where all can never be alike, some must of course be 
inferior to others ; but let there be no other than this. 
Let superiority of talent or merit receive the deference 
which to these is usually accorded with pleasure ; but 
let not man be degraded by the necessity of doing out- 
ward homage to those whom in his inmost heart he 



130 ' SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

despises or detests ; or to the still lower degradation of 
sincerely honoring that which more enlightened and 
juster views would teach him is dishonorable; and to 
admire and strive to imitate that which he would then 
abhor. We would that honor should be always ren- 
dered to him to whom honor is due ; but we would 
that those, and only those, should receive it. But there 
are so many false ideas of honor in the conventional 
relations of society, so much of respect exacted by, 
and accorded to, station, that every true principle of 
respect is crushed, or at least benumbed. 

He who wields the cloth-yard measure, deems him- 
self far more worthy of respect than him who tills the 
ground ; he who girds himself for war, and makes it 
the occupation of his life to slay his brethren, thinks 
himself an object of far greater value than him whose 
days are spent in the manufacture of the necessities or 
conveniences of life. She who sits at ease in her par- 
lor, would fain think herself a better and nobler being 
than is she whose every thought, and act, and moment 
are devoted to her family ; she who sits and fashions 
nice attire, believes herself of greater consequence than 
the individual who manufactured the article of which 
those garments are made ; and thus, through all the 
gradations of employment, is this aristocracy. 

Is it not foolish, nay, worse than foolish, to trample 
upon, and jeer, and scorn those who are bound by ne- 
cessity's stern laws to some harder service, some less 
profitable toil than ourselves ? Why should it be that 
those who do most, are so often thought to be deserving 
of the least '? The hardest working man is usually the 
poorest man. He who builds a palace, must himself 
i-o content with a cottage. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 131 

But times and opinions are gradually changing. Old 
abuses are slowly reforming, and a juster perception of 
our neighbor's rights mingles with more correct ideas 
of our own duty. The laborer gradually rises higher. 
As years pass by, some portion of the burden is cast 
upon the shoulders of those who have hitherto been 
favored ones, and they dare not endeavor to cast it 
aside. All must share it, though each should take that 
part which is best adapted to his strength and capaci- 
ties. If all did this, and all will some day do it, how 
easy would that burden be ! Nay, it would hardly be 
a burden. Labor, it is true, has been always thought 
a curse. It is in sacred writ pronounced as such ; but 
He who declared that sentence, is one who has merci- 
fully linked it with blessings ; and those who would 
wholly evade it, but bring upon themselves new judg- 
ments. 

But as mankind progress in knowledge and in holi- 
ness — as they approach that state of perfection which 
has been foretold as one of happiness and peace — the 
curse is gradually removed — at least all of the sen- 
tence which can be pronounced a curse ; for as new 
discoveries are continually made, as new inventions 
are constantly announced, as new complications of ma- 
chinery are rapidly and faithfully assuming the labor- 
er's office, as matter is ever becoming more surely and 
completely under the dominion of mind, even so is the 
curse removed. 

Nay, I win not call it a curse. All that prevents it 
from being an unmingled blessing, is taken away, and 
man in peaceful brotherhood enjoys the bounties and 
obeys the mandates of his Father. 



132 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

There is, as all believe, a brighter day to dawn on 
earth — a day when peace, equality and love shall 
form the grand features of the social plan ; when the 
laborer shall not bow to him who would bear undue 
authority — for all shall then be laborers ; and while 
''each in his proper station moves," all will be impelled 
by truth and love. 



THE UNSETTING SUN. 

It was nearly sunset ; and seldom did a more richly- 
tinted sky glow in the Occident, than on that fatal 
evening. As the sun sank lower in the gorgeous clouds, 
their brilliant hues of crimson, scarlet, and the impe- 
rial dye, assumed a more vivid tint ; and the bright 
golden vesture beneath, rolled out and upward, as if 
to envelope those varied beauties in one unbroken sheet 
of flame. 

A mother sat, with her hushed child upon her knee ; 
and as she looked upon the splendors of the natural 
world, whether revealed in the bright firmament above, 
or as reflected upon the broad earth beneath, her heart 
was subdued to holy thought ; and the cares and trials 
which erst had weighed so darkly upon her spirit, as- 
sumed a radiant light, as the Divinity found access to 
her heart; for she felt that they were but clouds veil- 
ing the face of Him who "is a iS'im," and to the eye of 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 133 

faith presenting a softened and more glorious mani- 
festation of the Divine presence. 

A maiden looked upon that setting sun ; but she 
thought not of its glories — for her imagination leaped 
forward to the hour when those gay colors should have 
faded from the sky, and she, with one who was very 
dear to her young heart, should stand beneath the 
light of stars, as they glimmered through the boughs 
of the trysting tree. 

The poet looked upon that sunset sky ; and, as he 
thought how much of brilliant though fleeting loveli- 
ness was concentrated in the scene, there was a yearn- 
ing desire in his breast to give vent in gushing song to 
his admiration of the beautiful. But oh ! what could 
he say that had not been often said before 7 He who 
first poured upon the swelling tide of harmony the 
feelings kindled by the glow of sunset, could not have 
more keenly appreciated its revelations of beauty, but 
he had been allowed the blessed privilege of being first 
to give them utterance. There were many passages 
awakened to remembrance, which almost seemed his 
own, so spontaneously did they respond to his observa- 
tion of the immediately visible. One occurred, thus : 

" Bright clouds ! ye are gathering one by one, 
Ye sweep in pomp round the dying sun, 
With crimson banner, and golden pall, 
Like a host to their chieftain's funeral. 
But methinks that ye tower with a lordlier crest, 
And a gorgeous flush as he sinks to rest." 

Another — 't was thus : — 

" I met thee in the western sky, 
In pomp of evening cloud ; 
12 



134 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

That while with varying form it rolled, 
Some wizard's castle seemed of gold, 
And now a crimsoned knight of old, 
Or king in purple proud." 

The long and beautiful description of a September sun- 
set, by another poet, came, unbidden of memory, to 
his hps ; and he felt that none now were needed to 
embody the radiant beauties of such an hour, in the 
form of poesy. But blessed indeed were those permit- 
ted to behold them ; yet little felt he, even then, of the 
blessing of a sunset hoLir. 

A maiden raised her damp head from a dying pillow, 
and they drew aside the window drapery that those 
sunken eyes might look once more upon this earthly 
glory. "Are they not heaDenl]/ ? ^^ she asked, as the 
spirit's fires glowed with rekindling lustre in her dark 
orbs : "all broken in a thousand parts, yet one, — 

" ' One as the ocean, broken into waves. 
And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep 
The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces, dyed 
Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, 
As they are thick or thin, or near, or more remote ; ' " 

then, sinking back, she whispered to the watchers 
near, — 

" ' May be, ere morning's light shall come, 
They '11 bear me on their bosoms home.' " 

^ * * Might there not be darker minds looking 
with as much of earnestness upon that sun, and wish- 
ing that the hour might come when deeds could be 
performed, whose actors shun the light of day 7 

And were there not those who love better the glare 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 135 

of brilliant chandelier, than the purer hght of day ; 
and whose bosoms throbbed with anticipation of mid- 
night mirth and revelry? 

But through those differing hearts shot one wild 
thrill, as the sinking sun paused for an instant upon 
the verge of the horizon, then turned upon "his axle 
red." Those who first noticed it, spake not — it was 
no time for words. There were no screams, nor shouts, 
nor groans : these are the articulations of natural feel- 
ings, not such as then were first created in the heart, 
and could not find an utterance. But there was that 
deep, awful, more than deadly silence, which loudly 
speaks of the terrible. 

The sun ivas going back! Yet, without a word, 
how soon was it known to each individual of an awe- 
struck world ! Men closed their eyes, and then looked 
up again, with the hope that a glimmer had passed 
from their sight — then they hoped it was an optical 
delusion — and then that it was some wild freak of the 
laws of light, some vagary, caused by an unaccounta- 
ble accident in the process of refraction. 

And there they stood, all pale and speechless, in 
their stolid silence, till they kmeio it was no delusion. 
The crimson blush had faded from the western sky, 
the golden fringe had dropped from every low-hung 
cloud, and there they stood in mourning robes — for of 
the scarlet and the purple hue they had been fearfully 
disrobed. And there was the sun traversing a back- 
Avard path, in the clear expanse above, and men stood 
and gazed in silent fear. Then they looked upon one 
another, but with hasty glances, for they could see in 
the countenances of others but the reflection of the 



136 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

anguish depicted on their own. Then they drew 
nearer to each other, that they might watch together — 
but Still they spake not. * * * 

All hands were still — all eyes were raised — but 
every heart was throbbing fast ; for the sun was near 
the zenith. Would he not then turn and descend, as 
in days of yore, to his place in the west ? This was 
the question asked by all, yet asked by none of each 
other, nor spoken in words. And now, for a moment, 
all hearts had ceased to beat — for the sun was on the 
meridian. But on he went, doivri to an easterm sky. 
Then they threw themselves upon their faces, and 
groaned in their deep despair. But terrible as was the 
sight, there was that fascination which still attracted 
their gaze, and they raised themselves from the earth, 
to watch again his coiU'se. 

Lower he sank — he Avas almost down — and the 
eastern sky blushed at the approach of the visitant, 
and raised towards him, as with a welcoming embrace, 
her thin, misty arms, and was clad in gorgeous sheen 
for the new comer. For a moment, as he seemed to 
nestle in the radiant cloud-robes which enveloped him, 
the watchers saw not whether he would tarry. But 
like a monarch, who rests him for an instant on a 
throne of state, then throws aside the splendid robes 
whose pomp had dazzled the gazers, so did he leave 
his radiant couch, and re-commence his glad career 
into a clearer heaven. 

And there men stood, and watched, throughout that 
live-long day, his journey to the west. And now, he 
was there ; and that western sky was awaiting his 
approach, even as a mother might watch the return of 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 137 

her child from some mad prank ; and the clouds arrayed 
themselves in their most gorgeous drapery, as if they 
would entice him to his couch below. But like a way- 
ward boy, who might not be subdued, he gaily went 
back, and left them again, to pursue his wild and ter- 
rible career. 

Then men laid their hands upon their mouths, and 
their mouths in the dust, and prostrated themselves in 
prayer before their Maker ; and fathers gathered their 
household bands around them, and raised* an altar 
where there had been heretofore no worship ; and 
those who had scoffed at all prayer, as but vain repe- 
tition, now sent up the audible supplication, " Lord, 
have mercy upon us ! " 

And through the next day, and the next long, sun- 
shine night which followed, they neither ate, nor drank, 
nor slept ; but watched the sun in his back and forward 
course, till their strength failed, from excess of fear. 

The mother pressed her moaning babe to her aching 
heart, and went to her inner chamber, and shut out 
that terrible light, that it might think there was dark- 
ness without; and while she prayed, till her brow was 
wet with the dews of agony, the babe "slumbered and 
slept." 

The maiden who had looked forward to the evening 
hour of tryst, now thought not of joy or love — of mar- 
rying or giving in marriage : and though she stood 
beside her betrothed, yet they thought not and spoke 
not of each other, but an unselfish prayer went up for 
all else — for they felt that in this sacrifice of their 
dearest hopes and affections, a value would be given 
to the uprising incense. 
12* 



138 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

There was now a new theme for the poet — one 
which well might stir the deep fount of feehng; but 
truly might he have thought that language could never 
embody the emotions for which it had never been 
framed. He might have thought this — but he did 
not. He thought not then of the poem which he 
might afterwards have produced. It is not in the mo- 
ment of deepest feeling that we seek to give it form in 
words. It is after emotion has subsided, when the 
sun-light of Genius falls upon the deep, calm well- 
spring of memory, that the reflection is seen, which 
the quick and skilful hand may then transfer. Neither 
the sun, nor the mist, alo?ie^ can make the rainbow; 
but when they are rightly joined, the gay arch spans 
the heavens. 

The invalid had gone to her long rest, and the bright 
flush of excitement faded not from her cheek till it was 
pale in death ; and the spirit winged its flight, bearing 
this query as a burden before the throne, "Why hast 
Thou dealt thus bitterly with Thy creatures, O my 
God?" 

The votaries of vice and of pleasure were subdued, 
awed and purified by this chastisement. Willingly 
would they have devoted their lives to the service of 
their Creator, might life but once more be a season for 
action, toil, and service in His cause. But Avhat could 
they do now? They walked the earth in hopeless 
agony; they wrung their hands, and groaned in spirit; 
and then they flung themselves upon their beds, that 
they might once more sleep, even if there were to be 
no more night. And, if, perchance, their fevered 
framt^s sunk into an uneasy slumber, from excess of 



or THE SEA OF GENIUS. 139 

excitement, they dreamed that they were out beneath 
a clear, deep evening sky, and that stars were sending 
down their pale beams npon a silent world, or that 
the moon was silvering the earth with radiance, save 
where the shadoAvs stood, like dark transfixtures in 
the brightness. And even while they deemed that the 
cool breath of eve was upon them, they awakened to 
that horrid glare, and looked out upon a scorched earth 
or a misty sky, through which the red sun, like a de- 
stroying dragon, was wending still his strange and 
mystic way. ^ * * 

It was the Sabbath ; and the first loud sound of life 
was the chime of the church-going bells, as they called 
together the worshippers. There was no need of the 
loud call — for they thronged to their temples, as 
though they hoped the prayer, which had gone up 
singly from each one present, would be answered now, 
if sent in one united petition. There was also that 
desire for social worship which we feel when we would 
receive or communicate the glowing flame; and stronger 
than this was the wish to make a public manifestation 
of their feeling of subjection to the Supreme. They 
said not now, '' We can worship in our hearts, and in 
our homes — for God is everywhere present ; ' ' but 
there was the yearning desire to show unto all men 
that they could bow in humility and penitence before 
their Creator. 

How few were sick, or tired, or necessarily detained 
that day ! All seats were filled, and aisles were 
thronged ; the proud man opened the door of his cush- 
ioned pew, that the swarth son of Afric might find a 
place at his right hand, and the gay belle, undecked 



1^0 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

for this day's worship, knelt down beside her rival's 
waiting-maid. 

A change had also come upon the pastors. He who 
had stood before his charge, and spoken of God, of 
heaven, and immortality, as though they were but 
words to round a period — who had coldly given them 
his ethical discourses, or, if he sought to move, had 
done it by exciting admiration of his well-chosen words 
and glowing imagery — that man stood that day with 
tears in his eyes, and cried with a loud voice, "Spare 
Thou us, O our God ! and turn away from Thy fierce 
anger." 

The man who had stood before his flock as though 
they were a faultless throng, and cried, "Peace! 
peace ! " as though there were no tempters [from 
within, — he stood that day and called out in his 
agony, " Unclean ! unclean ! before heaven and in 
Thy sight." 

The man who had stood in the preacher's desk, as 
though he were a delegate from the Almighty, and in 
him had been vested the power of eternal life or death 
— who had said as he chose, "Thy sins be forgiven 
thee," or "Be thou henceforth accursed by me" — 
who had bestowed benedictions or anathemas, at the 
suggestion of his own overbearing will — who had 
blessed what God had not blessed, and cursed what 
He had never cursed, — he, too, knelt down among 
his fellows, and cried, " Lord, be merciful unto me, a 



sinner 



I " 



In the great square of a crowded city, there was 
gathered a throng, who could not find admittance to 
any consecrated sanctuary ; and one came forward to 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 141 

lead their devotions, who had been derided and scoffed 
at, and even imprisoned for fanaticism. It might be 
that the fire of zeal had burned too fiercely on his 
brain, and his wild exhortations had often seemed but 
blasphemy. But he was solemn now; and stood be- 
fore them with downcast eyes and upraised hands, his 
white locks streaming over his long black robe, and 
the fire of insanity subdued beneath the more awful 
light of that unsetting sun ; and as he uttered forth the 
spontaneous prayer, he felt that it was but the expres- 
sion of all who were present. 

''And now, O Lord ! " continued he, "we have as- 
sembled ourselves together, we have gathered about 
the altar we dedicated to Thee, and we have come to 
ask a strange petition, even that darkness again might 
cover the earth, and thick darkness the heavens. The 
land trembleth and sorroweth, and one cry goeth up to 
Thee, that the earth may be darkened, and the sun 
withdraw his shining. We ask it in faith; for we 
know that if Thou wilt, this thing can be, — for our 
Redeemer is strong ; the Lord of Hosts is His name : 
He it is who can take away our fears, and turn our 
sighs into shouts of rejoicing. 

"And now, our God, was there ever sorrow like 
unto our sorrow ? was there ever afiiiction like unto 
that with which we are afflicted? We have trespassed 
and rebelled, and Thou hast not pardoned. Thou 
hast covered thyself with wrath, and persecuted. 
Thou hast slain, and hast not pitied. Yet they that 
be slain with the sword are better than they who per- 
ish from hunger, and they that starve are better than 
they who pine and are stricken with deadly fear. We 



142 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

are wasting away in Thy sight, for our eyes have 
failed in looking for relief; yea, they are blinded he- 
cause of the terrible brightness. Yet forget us not for- 
ever, though Thou hast now forsaken us ; but turn 
unto us, and renew Thy kindness, as in days of old. 
Let not this wonderful and horrible thing continue, as 
a memento of Thy wrath ; but bless us again with the 
evening and the morning which make the day. 

" We feel that we are not worthy of this favor. We 
ask it not as one might ask justice of his fellow men ; 
but we come before Thee as sinful children, appealing 
to the undeserved tenderness of an oft-forgotten parent. 
And now take from us our iniquity, and the punish- 
ment it has brought upon us, and receive us graciously; 
so will we render unto Thee the homage of our lips. 
And let not the oblations of our spirits be in vain ; but 
accept of the broken hearts which we lay low in the 
dust before Thee. We lift the voice, and bend the 
knee ; and beseech that Thou wilt lay by the terrors 
of Thy brightness, and shroud Thee in darkness — 
for in Thy great glory Thou art very terrible ; but let 
the lid fall upon that dazzling eye which has been 
stationed over us, and veil Thee in shadows of the 
night, that we may come into Thy presence without 
fear and trembling. 

"We know that we are vile before Thee. Thou 
hast searched our hearts with Thy radiance, till their 
deepest recesses can no longer hide the secret sins. We 
lay them all before Thee ; the forbidden things which 
we have cherished in the darkness, are brought to the 
light ; and spurn not the petition of those who would 
make themselves clean in Thy sight, though unworthy, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 143 

even in our best estate, of the favor we would ask. 
Yea, deal not Thou with us according to the counsels 
of Thy justice, but according to the dictates of Thy 
mercy and loving kindness, that we may feel that a 
reconciling and tender Parent is still our Guardian 
and God, and we may stand before Thee as children, 
and lift up our voices to our Father who is in heaven. 

"The earth mourneth, O Lord! the land is desolate, 
because the heavens above are not black. We pray 
again for darkness^ that it might cover the earth, and 
thick darkness the heavens. Thou hast dealt strangely 
with us, in Thy providence. Thou hast marked the 
courses of the sun, and it turneth back. Thou hast 
commanded a backward way, and it walketh therein. 
Thou didst stay its going down for Thy servant of old, 
and now wilt Thou not hear our petition, and bid it 
seek again its place of rest, and let once more the 
evening and the morning make the day 7 

"We feel that we are unworthy of this blessing. 
Yea, it is thus Thou hast taught us that it is a bless- 
ing; for we were wont to lie down and rest, when 
Thou didst draw around us the curtains of the night, 
and forget that the darkness, even as the light, was 
also the banner of Thy love. 

"And now, O Lord! the prayer which goeth up 
from many hearts before Thee, wilt thou hear in 
heaven. Thy dwelling-place, and when thou hearest, 
answer and forgive." And all the people said, "Amen." 

Yet that Sabbath night, when a humbled world 
looked in trembling hope to the sun, as he was sinking 
in the west, they groaned in irrepressible anguish, 
when they saw that he again turned back. 



144 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

But during this long sunshine, there had been fre- 
quent and copious showers, for the process of evapo- 
ration had been rapid. These were now succeeded by 
terrible tempests. There were hurricanes upon the 
land, and storms upon the ocean. There were whirl- 
winds, water-spouts, thunderings above, and quakings 
beneath ; there were avalanches, slides, eruptions, and 
mad confusion of " the lightning and the gale." 

Then, when for a time there was a cessation of the 
terrible commotion, they thought of nought but the 
devastation which had been made. The ocean strand 
was but a wall of wrecks, and upon those ever-restless, 
upheaving billows, none now would have thought to 
venture. Forests had been prostrated, fields destroyed, 
valleys overflowed, sea-ports submerged, and inland 
cities overthrown. Strong towers toppled, and fell ; 
bulwarks were laid prostrate ; temples were crumbled 
into fragments ; and the earth was one wide scene of 
ruin. 

From the first, there had been strange commotion, 
distress, madness, and then death, among the animal 
creation. Birds had soared shrieking in the heavens, 
then fluttered back to their nests, but never ceased 
from their restless screaming. Beasts had roamed 
howling over the plains, and then returned to the hab- 
itations of man, and crouched moaning at the feet of 
humanity, with that instinct which bids them look to 
man for aid, when there is evil they can neither avoid 
nor comprehend. But when granaries were destroyed, 
and fields blasted, then came famine for them; and 
their fierce madness was soon terminated by an agoniz- 
ing death. From their smoking carcasses went up the 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 145 

pestilence, which was to sweep the earth with a new 
besom of destruction. And the gaunt spectre traversed 
the land, like a warrior who has but to come and see, 
to conquer. 

In the intervals of calmness, men sought not to repair 
the desolation, or provide against the future. There 
was that hopeless, settled despair brooding upon them, 
which forbids all exertion. At first they had gathered 
together the crushed and mangled dead, and buried 
them with those who had died from fear and excite- 
ment ; but soon even the rites of sepulture were aban- 
doned. Mothers sucked in the putrid breath of their 
fevered infants, or held their cold corpses in their arms, 
with the hope that thus they too might depart the 
sooner. Fathers stood over the stiff forms of sons, of 
whom they erst had been so proud, and smiled to view 
their latest gasp. Yet few could be found to care for 
others, each was so wholly absorbed in his own terrors. 

The last thing which had been done in unison, was 
to assemble together, upon a day appointed for Fast- 
ings Humiliation, and Praye7\ That day was well 
observed. There were none heard to say, "It is but 
a day of man's appointment, and we regard it not;" 
but there was a solemn joy that they could thus pub- 
licly consecrate to God a day which He had not re- 
served as his own. There was a feeling of hope that 
this observance might not be disregarded, . and that 
prayer offered then might find acceptance at the mercy- 
seat. They neither ate, nor drank, nor spake one to 
another ; but cleansed their garments, and bowed to- 
gether in deep solemnity before their Maker. 

But when, on that eve, the sun again went back, 
13 



146 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

the watchers in their anguish cried out, " How long 7 
O Lord! How long?" But after this, all prayers 
went up, in dread and hopelessness, from solitary hearts ; 
and the dying wasted silently from the earth. * * * 

On a broad expanse of table-land were collected the 
survivors of a world. Thither had they come to avoid 
the flood, the fire, the crash of rocks, and fall of for- 
ests ; and there they awaited the approach of Death. 
Calmly and fearlessly was he received, as he came to 
one and another, till the band were almost gone. 

There were two there together — a husband and 
wife ; and even through that long agony, her love had 
failed him not ; and now his delirious head was repos- 
ing on her faithful breast. She bent low to hear the 
words which faltered on his parched lips, and shrank 
again when she found that it was an unwitting impre- 
cation and blasphemy. But when the expiring light 
of the soul flickered once more in the sunken eye, she 
gently murmured in his ear, "Though He slay me, 
yet will I trust in Him." The tone, the words, and 
the manner, soothed his vain murmurings, and reclin- 
ing on that unwearied bosom, he breathed his last. 

At length the last man was alone. He had seen the 
woman, his latest companion, stretch her cold limbs by 
her husband's form, and close her own eyes, when she 
knew that the hour was come : and he had seen it all 
unmoved. Sympathy had long been dead, and con- 
sciousness was numb. Once he raised his lithe, dark, 
shrivelled form from the earth, and looked above, and 
around. There were the bleaching bones of those who 
first had come, and nearer still were the thin, black, 
parchment forms of the later dead. And over them 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 147 

was that imsetting sun, wending his way in a clear 
sky, which that day was of a pale, brassy hue. 

He sank back, but withdrew not his keen, dark eye 
from the course of that bright orb, for it was sinking 
in the west, and he wished once more to see it turn 
back, with the feeling of triumphant victory, that he 
could view it now unmoved. 

Lower it sank, and still he watched in feverish exul- 
tation. "Now turn thee back, that I may behold it 
this once." But no ! the edge had dipped below the 
horizon. He started up — drew his hands across his 
brow, as if to brush away the brain-phantom which 
had crossed his vision — then looked again, to know 
that it was no illusion — that it was partly gone. He 
sent forth one loud shout of mingled hope, joy, exulta- 
tion, and despair — then wildly tossed his arms above 
his head, "and, when the sun went down, he died." 



THE PORTRAIT GALLERY. 

No. I. — POCAHONTAS. 

I LOVE to be here, and muse amidst these lineaments 
of the departed ; and to see how brightly these forms 
stand forth from the dim obscurity of the past, though 
here but by Memory and Imagination are they por- 
trayed — yet they have done well; and where the one 
hath found the task too hard, the other hath been ever 



148 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

ready, with her magic brush, and brilliant lights, and 
never hath she wrought in vain. 

Here are the good, the lovely, and the noble-hearted ; 
those to whom life was ever as a gladsome dream, and 
those to whom it was a scene of sorrow. Here is the 
queen, and here the subject; here the saint, and here the 
savage ; here the woman of olden time, and here the 
maiden of later days. Here are those of many different 
lands, and climes ; the children of the long forgotten, 
and also of the recent, Past. It is good to be here ; and 
I will sometimes lay aside all thoughts of the living, and 
the present, and come, as now, to hold communion with 
the dead. But when 1 speak, they answer me not — 
those rosy lips are never parted; those sparkling eyes 
can never vary in their glance ; and I must commune 
with myself, and cherish every thought which may 
come to me amidst the stillness. 

Here is a strange, and yet a fascinating scene ; the 
portrait of one who was noble in birth, in mind, and 
in her destiny. There are but few of the royal in our 
new-found world ; and thou, sweet daughter of Pow- 
hatan, shalt here precede all queens, and subjects of 
the East. How many characters were once combined 
in thee ! The child of an emperor, and yet of a sav- 
age ; a heathen, and then a Christian ; the daughter of 
an Indian, the wife of a Briton ; the foster-mother of 
an infant nation, and yet how soon its captured vic- 
tim ; the savior of one who could grieve, if not abandon 
thee; Matoaka,^ Pocahontas, and Rebecca — how 
many wild associations are mingled with those names; 
thoughts of man's dark deeds, and passions; of woman's 

* Matoaka was her real Indian name ; Pocahontas, the name hy which 
she was known to the whites. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 149 

firmness, love, and trust; of the lights and shades 
which play over that era in our country's story ; and 
of the romance which may be woven into the fate of a 
forest maiden. 

Pocahontas is here delineated in the attitude which 
to us appears most interesting. Here is Powhatan's 
wigwam, and the chieftain is seated, in savage state, 
amidst his warriors, arrayed in belt, and mantle, and 
feathery crown. The light of the blazing pine flickers 
upon the roof, sides, and floor of the sylvan dwelling. 
Its dusky inmates preserve a stern, unbroken silence ; 
and every face is blank, but for the expression of 
strong, unwavering purpose. In the centre of the 
group is the block, and victim : for the white man has 
bowed himself to die. But whose is this slight, child- 
ish form, which bursts upon the group, and lies itself, 
as a shield, to receive the destined blow 7 A murmur 
bursts from the compressed lips of each wild man, and 
there is a thrill throughout the stolid group. They 
could have seen the blow fall upon that devoted one, 
and watched his writhings in the agonies of death, and 
still have sat, as did that old assembly before their 
Gothic conquerors, and which could scarcely be distin- 
guished from the statues which surrounded them. 

But for this they are unprepared, and for this they 
must arouse, and act. To some of them the girl ap- 
pears as have the phantoms which flitted by their path 
in stealthy midnight march, or when, at twilight, they 
had roamed through the depths of the thick forest. 
There was more of fear than hatred in their hearts 
when they decreed that that strange man should die. 
But does not the Great Spirit send guardian ones to 
13* 



150 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

shield him'? or has he not ''a medicine,^^ which can 
summon the supernatural to his aid? or is that figure 
but the wreathing^smoke, which curls in wild fantastic 
forms around them all 7 

These are the thoughts with which they quickly 
start, for soon they all know, as Powhatan knew at 
first, that it is his best loved child, the little Matoaka. 
They try to force, to coax her away, but with her 
arms twined round the stranger's neck, she tells them, 
that if a blow is dealt on him, it first shall cut through 
her. There is something strange, almost mysterious, 
in this. The chieftain's heart is touched — not solely 
by the tears and prayers of that young girl, but by the 
fear that harm will come upon himself, if wrong is 
done the pale-face. Has not the Great Spirit been 
whispering to his child 7 Did not He bid her thwart 
her father's will 7 'Tis very strange — but her peti- 
tion is granted, and the emperor bids the white man 
live. 

Such is the scene. It is Pocahontas, as she Jirst 
appears upon the page of story ; and she starts upon 
the historian, much as her own red warriors were 
wont to burst upon our exiled fathers. 

There is darkness, midnight, and storms. The 
records of history have been those of struggles, vexa- 
tions, disappointments, privations, selfishness, and 
sometimes follies, and crimes. How beautifully does 
this young girl come, like a visitant from the ethereal 
world, in her innocence, trust, and self-forgetfulness ; 
but she does not, like a phantom, pass "in hghtaway." 
From this moment she is the friend, guardian, and 
savior of that little stranger band. It is through her 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 151 

instrumentality that they have land, food, friends, and 
— 'peace. She hears of treachery, and goes through 
"■ the deep-tangled wild wood," alone, and in " the 
darksome night," to tell them of their foes. She dares 
not take one token of gratitude or love, for fear that 
her father will see it, "and kill her." He whose hfe 
has more than once been saved by her, would give her 
jewels in which she may shine among her fellow- 
maidens, but she can accept of nothing now. 

There is nothing in the character of Pocahontas, 
which appeals for sympathy to the clannish instincts 
of our nature. She does not concentrate in her own heart 
the loves, hates, hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows, of her 
people. On the contrary, there is something like false- 
hood to her father, her kindred, and her race. But we 
love and esteem her the more for this. It was not 
that aught was wanting in her heart which dwelt in 
theirs, of social and domestic affection, or even of pa- 
triotism ; but that she had that which they did not 
possess — innocence, which could suspect no evil ; 
conscientiousness, which could permit no wrong ; be- 
nevolence, which yearned to do good to the pilgrim 
and stranger; and disinterestedness, which could forget 
all thought of self in her exertions for the benefit of 
others. We never feel that her opposition to her father, 
and her race, was from lack of aught that is noble or 
kindly in our nature ; and we wonder no more that 
she could never sympathize with her dark-browed 
kindred, than that the daughter of Shylock was false 
to him, and to her Hebrew faith. Pocahontas is sep- 
arate from all her tribe, because there are none else 
pure, soul-like, gentle, and affectionate, like her. A 



152 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

lonely life must hers have been in early days, yearning 
for communion with those she could not find ; sending 
forth the warm aspirations of her heart into the void 
around her, to be ever reminded that they are but 
wasted breath. How she struggled to love that which 
was not lovely ; to mingle with that with which she 
had no affinity : to learn that of which no one could 
teach her; to worship where she could not believe. 
But when the white man came to her, as if from the 
Spirit Land, with his magic powers, his mysterious 
arts, his strange yet beauteous frame, for little could 
she know that his clothing was not the gift of Nature, 
and the huge winged monsters which bore him o'er 
the deep, there was a trembling hope that here might 
be arrested the vague aspirings of her heart. His deeds 
of prowess are the theme of every tongue ; and when 
they come and tell her of his words — how that the 
stars are far-oif suns, and the moon a shining world ; 
how that the earth is round, and people dwell beneath 
their feet ; how there are lands beyond the great waters, 
where the people are thick as leaves upon the trees, the 
hairs upon the head, the stars in the sky, and the 
sands upon the sea-shore, and " how the sun did chase 
the night around the earth" — there is a trembling 
hope that in these may be found companions who can 
satisfy her questioning spirit. Hitherto her life has 
been an isolated one — father, mother, friends, are all 
as though another race of beings — 

" A lily in the wilderness, lifting its pure white brow 
Amidst the weeds and thorns around, Fuch, Indian maid, wert thou." 

But she is never aloof from them — she mingles in every 
scene of rude festivity, she wails when they send forth 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 153 

the funeral cry, she dances with her maidens in the 
moonhght, on the forest green, but she is not satisfied ; 
when alone she is still and sorrowful. Nay, she never 
is alone — she stands by the waters, and they send 
forth their rough chorus ; she sits upon the hill-side, 
and the winds chant their loud anthem ; she lies down 
in the wild-wood shade, and the leaf-harps send forth 
a sweet music, unheard by other ears. Nature is ever 
around her, and never mute ; but she speaketh with a 
strange tongue. The girl has been taught to worship 
Okee^ but still her altar has ever been erected to an 
Unknoivn God. Pocahontas is no angel, but she is a 
gentle, sensitive, reflective being, where all are rude, 
gross, and sensual. She feels painfully that ignorance 
of those laws of Nature, and of our being, which is 
ever so oppressive to the meditative mind. And when 
she knows that another and nobler race of beings have 
come to live among them, how quickly comes the 
thought that of them she can learn, in these confide, 
and to these assimilate. The white men icere not 
ivhat she had thought them^ but they ivere a superior 
race of beings. She was not mistaken there. They 
could teach her much which she fain would know ; 
they declare unto her the Unknown God, and she could 
not then understand their selfishness, avarice, contempt 
of heathens, and the wrongs they meditated upon her 
race. 

"Blessed are always the pure in heart" — and 
blessed was this heathen girl in the possession of a 
heart so open to all holy truth, so repellant of all of 
evil with which she found it mingled. 

It was always difiicult for the Indian to understand 



154 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



why the white man came upon Ids lands. He questioned 
of it as did the ancient Briton, when the Roman came 
to his island home, and Pocahontas must have lent a 
credulous ear to the plausible reasons which they gave, 
for leaving splendor, comfort, home, and friends, to 
come among her benighted people. They would give 
these heathen a better religion, and how instinctively 
her spirit receives the Holy Word as truth. To her 
they are not colonists, but pilgrims ; not adventurers, 
but missionaries ; and they are dependent upon her 
favor. She watches around them as a spirit of the 
upper world might hover over us — beautiful, benign, 
and melancholy Pocahontas — lovely, virtuous, dig- 
nified, and happy Rebecca. 

Were a band of visitants to come to us, from another 
•sphere, a race superior in mind, and far more beautiful 
in person than we, whose hearts would yearn towards 
them from quickest sympathy 1 whose feelings would 
most readily respond to theirs ? and by whom would 
their wants and wishes first be met ? By the pure, the 
imaginative, the spiritually-minded. Those whose 
souls have oftenest wandered in the highest regions of 
the ideal. And those who v/ould shrink, would quail, 
would tLirn indifferent away, would be the irreligious, 
heartless, and earthly-minded. These strange visitants 
might have powers of harm, and thoughts of wrong, 
but if they were different from ours, we should not, if 
innocent ourselves, be ready to suspect them of evil. 

It was thus that, in both North and South America, 
those who were most prompt in their appreciation of 
the powers, and most ready to extend their sympathies 
to the white man, were superior to their fellows, as 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 155 

surely as they were afterwards the first to foresee, and 
the most strenuous in their efforts to prevent, the evil 
which impended over their people. 

There is an interest almost sublime in contemplating 
the character and fate of these red-browed men, as 
connected with our pale-faced ancestors — these children 
of Nature, contrasted with the children of Civilization. 
When they came in little bands, "a feeble folk," with- 
out provision, shelter, or lands^ they were welcomed, 
supported, and cherished, till fears were excited for 
their own safety, and preservation. Then came the 
deadly struggle — then stood they foe to foe — the one 
strong in civilized art and stratagem ; the other mad- 
dened by the sense of treachery, and outrage, and 
nerved by a sense of the justice of his cause. 

It reminds one of the fable of the woodman^ who 
took the chilled and helpless serpent to his heart and 
bosom, but to revive a strength which was to be ex- 
erted for his destruction. Even thus the Indian took 
into the bosom of his home a creature, which was to 
rise with fresh and mighty power, to coil round him its 
swelling folds, and thrust at him its hydra head ; to 
crush, mangle, and destroy. It was a fearful struggle — 
the struggle of the Laocoon — most noble though it was 
useless and fatal. 

There is something, I repeat, most touching in the 
manner in which they depart. They find themselves 
powerless — utterly unable to cope with their enemies. 
To remain — to hover, ghostlike, over the remains of 
their kindred — to live in bondage, aye, in communi- 
cation with their conquerors, is degradation, misery, 
and worse than death. But they must go — the pale- 



156 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

face shall not see them live — he shall not see them 
when they waste and die. Then comes the mournful 
question, " Can the bones of our fathers arise, and fol- 
low us into a strange land ? " And when they go, the 
most sorrowful farewell is to those burial-grounds. 

There is a Roman greatness in this — the greatness 
of the Csesar who mantled his face that none might 
see when first it blenched, and when the last convulsions 
passed away. Perhaps there is something very favor- 
able to the red man in the distance from which he must 
be viewed — his Spartan virtues, his wrongs, his fate, 
the beautifully figurative style in which his sentiments 
are uttered, his sense of his injuries, and indignation 
at his enemies — in all of this there is something wildly 
fascinating in the page of history. Whatever would to 
us be most repulsive — his domestic habits, his social 
economy — is seldom detailed there. Yet he can throw 
a thrilling interest sometimes, even here. An Indian, 
seating himself upon the ground, has little in his po- 
sition to command our respect ; but how are our feel- 
ings changed when he says, " The Sun is my father — 
the Earth is my mother — I will recline upon her 
bosom." 

The departure of that dark race is like that of clouds, 
which pass away before the morning sun. As they 
rise and recede, the blackness lessens ; they catch new 
glories from the orb at which they flee ; they glow in 
purple, pink, and crimson ; they are tinged with gold ; 
and when they melt in the far horizon, they vanish in 
beauty. 

And is it not a touching sight when some faint rem- 
nant of that cloud comes hovering backward, over the 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 157 

scene from which it rose ? ''I know," says Campbell, 
the poet, ''of no sight more touching than that of the 
Indian, who returns to break his bow-string over the 
graves of his fathers." 

But our portrait has been suggestive of other, though 
kindred pictures — and, Pocahontas, have we been 
true in what is here ascribed to thee ? A historian 
says of her, " Our whole knowledge of her is confined 
to a few brilliant and striking incidents, yet there is in 
them so complete a consistency, that reason^ as well as 
imagination, permits us to construct the whole charac- 
ter from these occasional manifestations." Even in 
that first scene when she is introduced to us, there is a 
manifestation of her past as well as present character. 
How was it that she, a girl among a people where 
woman was despised — how became she the favorite 
of that mighty king? that savage Bonaparte — and a 
favorite possessing so great an influence 7 It must have 
been the magic of worth, intellect, and affection, work- 
ing on that stern man's heart, through her whole short 
life, which could obtain the boon he granted her. They 
did not trifle with Pocahontas — they did not promise 
the white man's life, and thus seduce her away, that 
they might work his death with no more molestation. 
Powhatan treated her not as a child — but as a woman. 
Aye, there, and then, she was treated as a man. 

And she never lessens in the esteem and love which 
she at first inspired. Her sincerity, firmness, and cour- 
age will always command the former ; her gentleness, 
compassion, modesty, and strong affection will ever win 
the latter. Her devotion to Christianity, her strong 
affection for Capt. Smith, her love for John Rolfe, are 
14 



158 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

claims upon our sympathies as Christians, and Yen- 
gese. But she was not false to her own race. They 
needed not her efforts, her charities — they were then 
the aggressors — the murderers. She left her father 
because she could not witness his cruelty and treachery 
towards that feeble band; and when she was taken, 
as their captive, her tears could only be restrained by 
the thought that thus she might again be serviceable 
to them. 

That little spot, where the English first settled, will 
ever be hallowed by thoughts of her. The moss-roofed 
church, and grass-grown walls of that old fort, will be 
remembered long after '' there shall not be left one 
stone upon another," as the place where Rebecca was 
baptized ; where, with her husband, she drank from 
the fountain of life ; and where her love, for him and 
his people, was hallowed by that piety which led her 
to choose his people for her people, his God for her 
God ; to live, die, and be buried among his kindred. 

The departure of Pocahontas for England was to 
her a most interesting event. That country was the 
El Dorado, which Fancy loved, yet almost failed to 
portray. How strange and magical must that old 
world have seemed to her ; but strangest of all, most 
mysterious of all, that ties of love must there he sun- 
dered by courtly etiquette. 

She must not call Cap'. Smith her father here, be- 
cause, forsooth, she is the child of a monarch, and he 
is but " a subject of that realm." The Lady Rebecca 
could understand the superiority of the English, she 
could perceive the resources and advantages of civili- 
zation, she must have painfully felt her ignorance of 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 159 

what they so much vakied, but she could not under- 
stand their mere formahties ; she could not perceive 
the advantages of Capt. Smith's cold bearing. She had 
thought him dead — she knew not otherwise until she 
met him, when she was '• a stranger in a strange land," 
even as he had been in the home of her fathers. And 
here the man, whose life she saved, must meet her with 
a formal grace, and will not let her call him ^^ father.'''' 
" You were not afraid," said she to him, " to come in- 
to my country, and strike fear into every one but me, 
but here you are afraid to let me call you father — but 
I tell you that I will call yoM father^ and you shall call 
me child ; and so I will be your countryman for ever 
and ever." 

The man who had gained the affections of women 
of many lands, of the Russian, the Turk, and the 
French, had a strong hold upon the heart of the poor- 
Indian. Her feelings must have been deeply wounded, 
and Capt. Smith did not repay her disinterested love as 
it should have been returned. 

True, he wrote a letter to Queen Anne, commending 
to her notice and charity this lovely daughter of the 
forest. But, even in this, the selfishness and avarice 
of the white man is depicted. He speaks, it is true, 
of ^'this tender virgin, whose compassionate, pitiful 
hand had oft appeased their jars, and supplied their 
wants;" of her rejection of heathenism, "being the 
first Christian of that nation, the first Virginian that 
ever spoke English, or had a child in marriage with an 
Englishman; a matter worthy of a prince's under- 
standing." He also speaks of her exceeding desert — 
her birth, virtue, and simplicity, and of '^ her great 
spirit, however her stature^ 



160 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

But this is not why he particularly recommends her 
to the notice of the queen. It is because, by a right 
conduct, '' this kingdom may have a kingdom, by her 
means ; " whereas, by a contrary course, " her present 
love might be turned to scorn and fury, and divert all 
this good to the worst of evil ; but if she should find 
so great a queen do her more honor than she could 
imagine, it would so ravish her with content as to eftect 
that which her majesty and her subjects most earnestly 
desire." 

And this was the reward of the generous, unselfish^ 
heroic exertions of Pocahontas. 

But in the midst of these disinterested attentions, the 
Lady Rebecca died — died as she was about to return 
to the land of her fathers ; to exchange the wearisome 
formalities of courtly life for the unrestrained enjoy- 
ment of a humble home ; as she was hoping to look 
upon her father's face once more, and to lay before the 
aged man the child of his beloved Rebecca. 

Perhaps it is well that she died then ; that she never 
lived to see the ascendancy of the white man in that 
western home ; that she never saw the kindred of her 
husband ruling where once her father held sole sway. 
There must have been struggles, heart-aches, and self- 
questionings which would, at least, have marred her 
happiness. 

In that island, far over the great waters, where lie 
entombed so many of the good, the brave, and royal, 
rest also the remains of the first, and, as yet, the last, 
distinguished princess of America. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 161 



Nos. II. & III. CLEOPATRA, AND ZENOBIA. 

Turning from the slender form of the Indian princess, 
all destitute as it appears of any exterior mark of roy- 
alty, it is dazzling to look upon these queens of the 
East. Cleopatra and Zenobia, though differing in their 
character, nation, and exploits, yet seem united in our 
sympathies by some similarity of personal graces, and 
by their tragical fate. In the persons of these beauti- 
ful, and accomplished, oriental females, have been con- 
centrated more of wealth, splendor, pomp, and ele- 
gance, of all that can seduce the senses, than will ever 
be witnessed again. They may be considered the im- 
personations of femal,^ sovereignty ; the proof of what 
woman will do when she is woman^ and uninfluenced 
by any circumstances but those of her own creation. 
They looked not back upon the past, for precedents, 
for they were among the first to rule their kingdoms 
with a woman's sway; they looked not around them 
for example, support, or sympathy, for they were too 
far removed from all contemporaries to avail themselves 
of aught of these ; and mayhap they looked not for- 
ward, to the future, for applause, approval, and a post- 
humous fame. The institutions, and religions of their 
clime, and age, were rather adverse than favorable to 
the developement of characters like theirs, and could 
not exert an influence corresponding to the modifications 
they received in return. They were women ; acting 
with woman's impulses, and strengthened by a wo- 
man's will. 

Hence their reigns, while they were rulers, were 
14=* - 



162 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

like a splendid triumph; one long-extended show of 
riches, pomp, and grace ; a dazzling display of the 
wealth of the Orient, as exhibited with the utmost ele- 
gance and taste. They lived in the present, surround- 
ing themselves with the rare, the costly, and the 
beautiful, and it is the remembrance of what they 
were then, rather than an indelible impression stamped 
upon their kind, that wins a place in every portrait 
gallery, whether of painter, sculptor, poet, or historian. 
It is in early morning that the clouds are pink, and 
purple, and gold ; that earth puts on her diamond robe, 
and flowers send up their sweetest incense, and every 
shrub, and tree, and grove, is studded with its varied 
jewelry : but it is not then that the shrub sends forth 
its shoots ; that the grass is preparing its blade for the 
mower, or the seed-vessel ripening for the harvest. 
The glittering and beautiful are sometimes allied with 
the enduring and useful, but seldom in the history of 
nations, or their rulers. 

Here is the Egyptian Queen, as portrayed by the 
master-poet ; and Avas there ever, before, so enchanting 
a union of splendor and grace 7 Royalty is behind 
her ; a ruler awaits her coming ; and idolatrous wor- 
ship is all around her. 

" The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 
Burned on the water : the stern was beaten gold : 
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
The winds were lovesick with them ; the oars were silver, 
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made 
The water, which they beat, to follow faster. 
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, 
It beggared all description : she did lie 
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue) 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 163 

O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see, 
The fancy out-work nature : on each side her, 
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 
With diverse-colored fans, whose wind did seem 
To glow the delicate cheek which they did cool, — 
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, 
And made their bends adorning : at the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, 
That yarely frame the office. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
Of the adjacent wharves. The city cast 
Her people out upon her ; and Antony, 
Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone. 
Whistling to the air ; which-, but for vacancy, 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too. 
And made a gap in nature." 

Such was this fascinating sovereign, this syren queen, 
conquering by subduing ; appeaUng wholly to the sen- 
ses ; binding, with her magic spell, the reason, awaken- 
ing the fancy, and enlivening the imagination, by her 
consummate arts and graces. Such was she, as she 
took such pains to appear to ''Noble Antony," the 
triumvir of Rome, and, by such arts, to be converted 
to a slave of " Egypt." 

There never yet was queen who effected so much by 
female tact, and blandishment, as Cleopatra. It was 
not alone by her superior intellect, but by her captiva- 
ting powers, that she won that then unwonted place 
for one of her weak sex, a seat upon her father's throne ; 
a divided power with Ptolemy, her brother. With any 
other partner his deficiencies might not have ever glar- 
ingly appeared ; but with the lovely girl, who, even 



164 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

then, was versed in all of feminine accomplishments, 
who was also learned in Grecian lore, who could hold 
audience, herself, with the representatives of ten dif- 
ferent countries, who so charmingly united vivacity 
and grace, mental activity with girlish languishment, 
who had a talent, all her own, to mould so many to 
her will, contrasted with his sister, young Ptolemy was 
not a monarch. 

The pageant and insignia of royalty were too pleas- 
ing, too necessary to Cleopatra, for the developement 
of her peculiar powers, for her to remain a second to 
one so much inferior. That she was devoid of sisterly 
affection, is not probable, when she would so readily 
yield to other love, but no passion in her was superior 
to ambition. There are always friends to justice, and 
foes to beauty, intellect, and fortune. Cleopatra did 
not usurp ascendency without opposition. She was 
always brave when mental courage only was required, 
and resolved to submit to no dictation. Then, when 
her country was convulsed with factions, and Rome 
was called upon to decide between the rival kindred, 
then, for the first time, did she show to what she could 
descend, as she had shown before to what she would 
aspire. Gaining by stratagem an audience with Csesar, 
she disarmed him of all the qualifications of an impar- 
tial judge, by transforming him into a lover. From 
that time until the murmurs of his indignant soldiery, 
penetrating even the palace of the luxurious queen, 
aroused him from the enchanting dream, was the great 
Roman the slave of the Egyptian girl. It was by con- 
tributing to his pleasure that she preserved her own 
power, and gained a mastery over the master of the 
world. 



or THE SEA OF GENIUS. 165 

But when he was gone, and there was nought for 
her to do but to "rule over Egypt," she did it wisely 
and well. Her country prospered, and she could read 
in the magnificence to which she trusted, much to pre- 
serve her influence over her people. 

With the diadem of Isis on her brow, and the robe 
of the goddess encircling her form, it is not wonderful 
that, with her grace, and accomplishments, she should 
retain the adoration of subjects, whose regard was 
never excited by sterner attributes. Then came Pom- 
pey, and then another brave Roman owned the magic 
of the Egyptian's sway. But we have portrayed her 
as she first was seen by stern Mark Antony, the rough 
warrior, the hard Roman, and truly did it need seduc- 
tions, such as hers, to subdue the man, whose pulses 
long had ceased to beat to the quick impulses of youth. 
Cleopatra did not exert her powers in vain, and again 
was a Roman leader bewitched by the sorceries of this 
syren. The spell was long and strong upon him, and 
never broken; but once Mark Antony aroused from 
slumber. The dream was lurking in his brain, even 
when, in distant Rome, he made the lovely, modest 
and virtuous Octavia his bride. One would think that, 
with so pure a cup of happiness at his lips, he would 
never have turned again to the intoxicating draught. 
And one might think it strange that she could conde- 
scend to drink again at the bowl of pleasure, with him. 
From the time of their union, when he forgot his duty 
to himself, to his country, his noble brother-in-law, and 
wife, to revel in luxury with her, who forgot the dig- 
nity of a woman and queen, to join with him in 
revelry — from that moment there are darker shadows, 



166 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND ^ 

I 

on the shifting scenes, than heretofore have mingled | 

with the dazzhng hghts. But when Mark Antony rose ] 

from his syren's arms, to meet the just avenger, when , 
Octavius and Antony were to decide, in blood and bat- 
tle, whether his duties were to be abandoned, and the 
rights of others outraged, with impunity : then Cleo- 
patra showed, as she had shown before, that she could 

share the trial with those who shared her pleasure ; '\ 

that she would not abandon in the storm those with J 

whom she had basked in the sunshine. She brought j 

forces to her lover ; she brought him ships and men ; \ 

for she could remember that he had given her kingdoms j 

and crowns. If she had kept aloof from the combat I 

her cause must have been the gainer, if not Mark An- j 

tony the victor. It was not courage that led her to the | 

battle-ship. It was dread =^ it was that craven fear \ 

which could not allow her protector from her sight; j 

which could not wait, and meet her fate alone. But ! 

her physical timidity overcame her mental powers, and \ 

" in the midst of the fight, when vantage, like a pair i 

of twins, appeared," she fled, and '^ Antony flies after I 

her," — I 

" Experience, manhood, honor, ne'er before ' 
Did violate so itself." 

Cleopatra loved Mark Antony, with all the love her 
heart could feel ; and even in the midst of her shame, . 
anguish, and fear of impending ruin, there was some 
little consolation in the assurance that he too loved her, 
as well as he could love — that though Octavia lived, 
and one was in her grave, his " serpent of old Nile" 
could spread her wile around him still. Now she 
knew that there was strength in her flower- wreathed | 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 167 

chains, and that it was not all hyperbole when he 
said 

" Thou knewest too well 
My heart was to thy rudder tied, by the strings, 
And thou should'st tow me after ; o'er my spirit 
Thy full supremacy thou knewest : and that 
Thy beck might, from the bidding of the gods, 
Command me." 

Cleopatra never could win respect, even in her days 
of comparative innocence, but in these last sad scenes 
we cannot wholly refuse our admiring sympathy. 
True, as danger thickened, and ruin pressed upon 
them, she gave herself up to excess of pleasure ; but 
she was not wholly selfish, and she and Antony were 
two of a band ^^ united in deaths True, there was 
loud mirth, and gay revelry, at Antony's birthday 
feast, but her own she kept in silence and sadness — 
true, as the fatal tragedy drew near its close, she fled 
to an asylum, which she knew could afford no safety 
to him ; but when the doom, he could not long avert, 
was hastened by his own hand, and in the belief of 
her death, she did not refuse him the privilege of dying 
near her. With her own hands, the "hands which 
kings had trembled kissing," all distended, and con- 
vulsed with the exertion, she helped to draw the dying 
man into her tower ; she wiped the death-damp from 
his brow, and kissed his quivering lips, and received 
his latest breath upon her own. True, she conde- 
scended to ask favors of Octavius, but it was that she 
might bury Antony with honor, and that Egypt, the 
patrimony of her father, might be given to her children. 
True, she sought death, but it- was as a relief from 



im 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



ignominy. She, who had hoped to reign in Rome, and 
be acknowledged mistress of the world, may be ex- 
cused if she shrank from being there exhibited as a 
captive. 

The asp had done its poisonous work, when the Ro- 
man burst into the chamber of death ; but the crown 
was then upon her head, and the royal robes lay in 
rich folds upon her stiffening form. One handmaid 
lay already dead at her feet — another was dying, 
while arranging the diadem upon her brow. Can we 
not agree with her in her answer to the Roman's ques- 
tion. — '^ Charmian, was this well done?" "Yes, 
Roman ! it was well — for such a death was meet for 
such a queen." 

We should not judge this ancient heathen queen by 
those pure rules, that high standard, which should 
govern the actions of a Christian matron. We always 
do injustice to any person, by taking them from their 
age and country, and judging them by the rules of 
right and wrong which are the standard of another. 
Cleopatra was one of the most fascinating of women, 
and she did — what women are always wont to do — 
she exerted the power she possessed. She was the 
unwedded wife of Csesar, Pompey, and Mark Antony, 
but her favors were not bestowed upon inferiors, and 
to two, at least, she was faithful till death — to all she 
awarded the constancy they deserved. 

Educated, as she was, in a corrupt court, with no 
good guide, and no true faith, who can tell to what, 
under other influences, her superior talents, and fas- 
cinating powers, might have been directed ? 

As she is, she stands one by herself — and to be 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 169 

judged by no laws, but those which are common to all 
mankind. In the long line of Egyptian sovereigns 
she is as a fairy in some old gallery of armored statues, 
fixing the attention of all by her bewitching loveli- 
ness ; though among them seeming to be not of them, 
and leading the beholder to doubt whether she be, in- 
deed, a vision, or reality. 

It is pleasant to turn, from Cleopatra, to Zenobia, 
the Queen of Palmyra. Her character is of a higher 
order, and, though she may not interest us more, yet 
she interests our better feelings ; there is more to ad- 
mire, and our admiration is not mingled with so much 
of disapprobation, and with nought of contempt. In 
her there was less of sorcery, but more, far more, of 
true talent, genius, and energy. If she did not capti- 
vate so readily, it must have been because she dis- 
dained exertions to win. With more of personal beauty 
than the Egyptian, with more accomplishments, and 
true refinement, she lacked no less native grace and 
fascination. But she could not stoop to artifice ; she 
could not bend herself to the tastes of the rude and 
sensual. She was severely virtuous, in the limited 
sense of the term, if not in every sense. She was 
magnificent, dazzling, and ambitious; she wished not 
only to be a queen, but to do something, which might 
make good her claim to royalty. If portrayed as she 
oft appeared to her contemporaries, and would wish to 
appear to posterity, it would not be reclining in volup- 
tuous ease, with the chaplet of a goddess on her brow, 
with Cupids, Nereides, and Sylphides at her side, with 
the melody of flutes, and the ripple of waters stealing 
15 



170 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



on the perfumed breezes — O, no — here she is with a 
hehnet on her head, with burnished armor ghttering 
o'er her frame, with the battle-lance poised gracefully 
in her hand, and her stately war-horse prancing 
proudly beneath his royal burden ; while the fires of 
a daring spirit, and the softer emotions of an affection- 
ate heart, are mingled in her " divinely expressive 
eyes." Her soft dark locks, escaping from the iron 
circlet, are floating on the breeze ; and the enchanting 
smile, which parts her mouth, shows the teeth which 
were almost believed to be pearls. Around her are the 
Syrian, the Greek, the Roman, the Egyptian, the Arab, 
and the native Palmyrene ; and these discordant troops 
are resolved into one mighty indivisible force by the 
magic of her smiles and frowns. 

In the distance is faintly discerned an advancing 
foe. Afar, through the thin blue haze, which lightly 
rests upon the desert, is seen the mighty caravan, 
which breaks the monotonous profile of the level waste. 
As the long columns emerge from the boundary of land 
and sky, each warrior's form increases in size, and as- 
sumes a more formidable aspect. At their head is 
Aurelian, the stern and mighty Emperor of Rome, the 
conqueror of savage Goths, and ruler of tumultuous 
Italians. There is the strong, vindictive Aurelian, op- 
posing his talents and energies to an Oriental female. 
No wonder that, spite of the terror of his name, the 
prowess of his arm, the vastness of his resources, and 
the almost hopelessness of the struggle — no wonder 
that thousands resolved to confront with her the com- 
mander of Roman legions. That sweet, though pow- 
erful voice, falls on their ears like the notes of the 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 171 

silver clarion, and every heart beats high with fearless 
enthusiasm. 

And there is Palmyra, "the city of Palms," reflect- 
ing from its long lines of pure white columns the fiery 
rays of an Eastern sun, while the thousand shadows 
of bending trees, and the glittering spray from hun- 
dreds of jutting fountains, mingle in strong contrast 
with the rich soft flood of sunshine. 

There are graceful forms, arrayed in rich costume, 
threading those straight and wide-paved streets — fe- 
males, in gay aerial drapery, are stealing through the 
miles of sculptured colonnade — there is beauty, wealth, 
and every where the visible effects of a wonderful taste, 
which could change the details of every-day life into 
the semblance of a fete-day gala. O, why can they 
not be permitted to remain m peace, in the magnificent 
city which they have raised from the arid desert ; and 
to luxuriate in the wealth and loveliness which they 
have created, from resources which interfered not with 
the rights and privileges of any nation, unless it were, 
indeed, the right and privilege of Rome to rule the 
world. Light hearts grew heavy, and bright eyes grew 
dim, as the fierce siege was pressed — but still those 
eyes could flash with brilliance, and those hearts were 
relieved of much of their sadness when near their 
queen. Fierce spirits softened, as her tones of gentle- 
ness fell on their ears, but their wild enthusiasm could 
not be repressed when that sweet voice aroused them 
to vengeance, patriotism, and strife. Her Arab bands, 
like the fierce tornado of their own deserts, swept by 
the foemen's camp, and swift and sure as the light- 
ning's scathe was the mark they left behind. But 



172 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



though Palmyra had bravery, enthusiasm, and a queen 
who could mould all passions to her will, and avail 
herself of every resource she possessed, yet her re- 
sources were not comparable to those of the Emperor. 
Every energy of that great warrior was bent upon the 
subjugation of Zenobia. He was resolved that there 
should be no ''Augusta of the East," that the purple 
robe should not envelope the limbs of a Palmyrene. 
And though the satirists of Rome laughed their Em- 
peror to scorn, as one who waged ignoble war, yet he 
was a far better judge of the military genius of Zeno- 
bia, and the glory to be won by a trial at arms with 
her, than were the poets. To him it seemed far more 
ignominious to permit one independent sovereign to 
rule her kingdom, unawed, and unopposed, than to 
crush it by brutal force. She had defied him also ; 
she had questioned his ability to take what he had 
been so arrogant as to demand. " Those who laugh at 
me," said he, "know little of this woman; they speak 
too as though Zenobia opposed me with her single 
arm." 

Though the arm of Zenobia could never have di- 
rected those awful engines, with which, from the walls 
of Palmyra, were scattered death and destruction, yet 
it was she who nerved the arms which might wield 
them for her. Though her jewelled armor, and glit- 
tering helmet, could slightly protect her from the Ro- 
man, yet the lights which glittered over them were 
reflected back from thousands of burning eyes, and 
the sight of her infused new strength into her deter- 
mined supporters. 

But all their zeal, courage, and loyalty to her were 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 173 

of little avail against the determined and vindictive 
Emperor. And when Zenobia's last noble and heroic 
effort, in behalf of Palmyra, resulted in her own cap- 
tivity, the knowledge of that event fell like a paralysis 
upon her noble-hearted people. 

Had she possessed the artful qualities of Cleopatra — 
could she have descended to the degrading efforts by 
which the Egyptian Q,ueen seduced a Roman Emperor, 
no doubt the savage Aurelian could as easily have 
been transformed into a gallant lover, as Cgesar, or 
Mark Antony. But though a conquered sovereign, 
she was still a Q,ueen — not one born beneath the 
shadow of a throne, and nurtured in a palace, but one 
to whom the true insignia of royalty had been granted 
by Nature; and to her alone she was indebted. "Thou, 
who hast conquered, do I acknowledge my sovereign," 
said she with a subdued dignity which could ennoble 
a captive. Her modest, though self-respectful deport- 
ment, could even impress the enraged Aurelian. The 
blood for which his worn soldiers thirsted and suppli- 
cated, he permitted not to stain his sword. The life, 
which had caused the death of many of his tried war- 
riors, was not taken as a ransom for theirs. Zenobia 
was permitted to live. Alas ! that one other as dear 
to posterity should have been sacrificed for his devotion 
to her. 

But Palmyra must feel the vengeance of the aggressor. 
That city of enchantment, which had almost sprung 
into existence at her command, and blossomed, even in 
the desert, beneath her smile; that city must be doomed 
to expiate, in blood and ashes, the sin of opposing 
Rome. 

15^ 



174 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Hundreds of years have passed away, but they have 
found and left it desolate. The sirocco of Arabia has 
borne its sand clouds over it, or buried its columns 
beneath their shifting shroud. The sun has poured his 
unbroken rays upon its ruined temple, for thousands of 
cloudless days, but no incense has gone up from the 
deserted altars ; from thence no voice of praise shall 
ever greet his rising. The long unbroken lines of 
snowy colonnade still lift their slender pillars to the 
skies, but every shaft is now an obelisk. Desolation 
triumphs, where once Zenobia reigned — Zenobia, 
which then was but another name for graceful mirth, 
for refined magnificence, for warm affections, and noble 
aspirations. 

Yet Zenobia was but an Arab — her father the chief 
of a desert tribe ; and her lofty spirit was nurtured 
amid the free winds, beneath the cloudless skies, and 
under the fearless influences of Arabia. To be "a 
patient household drudge " had been her lot, if even 
her transcendant beauty had been unmingled with a 
worthy spirit. But, for once, the casket was but a 
fitting shrine for the priceless jewel, and, for once, an 
Oriental maid is to assert even her claims to mental 
superiority. When death had freed her from the master 
to whom her girlhood had been sold, she became the 
wife of Odenatus, a chief of Palmyra — then but a 
mighty caravanserai, the resort of the merchant and 
pilgrim, though still hallowed by the remembrance of 
him who first dedicated its pure springs to the service 
of the stranger, and trafficker. Hallowed it now is, 
throughout the East, by the recollection of him who is 
still remembered as the wisest man^ and who built 
" Tadmor in the desert." 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 175 

But though Zenobia could ride to battle by her hus- 
band's side — though she could even instruct him how 
to war with the old monarchies of that old world, yet 
she had tastes for higher and more congenial pursuits ; 
tastes which needed but opportunities for develop- 
ment, and the wealth which conquests could bestow — 
which needed but these to change the brilliant dreams 
of a lovely woman to beautiful and enduring realities. 

The transient encampment become a city of temples, 
palaces, fountains, gardens, and porticoes, which war 
and time have not been able wholly to destroy. 

The nations of the Orient bowed to the sceptre of 
Palmyra, and hailed its mistress as their Q,ueen. And 
when she raised, alone, the standard of the murdered 
Odenatus, it needed but that single arm to move them 
on to victory. Different nations resolved into one 
mighty people beneath her rule, and warriors of many 
climes pressed under her banners. The Greek came 
with poetry, philosophy, and the arts : the Arab came 
with burning zeal, with eloquence, fiction, and song; 
the Roman, with his stern bravery, and severe taste ; 
the Syrian, with his love of splendor, show, and Ori- 
ental ceremonial ; all united with the graceful, light- 
hearted, genuine Palmyrene in affection, patriotism, 
and devotion. Her sceptre seemed a magic wand, 
which transformed these discordant bands into a united 
family of brothers. 

And she too was changing — she sat at the feet of 
the noblest spirit of the age, and drank at the purest 
fount of intellect. F.rom the Roman she learned to 
discipline her armies ; from the Egyptian, to mingle 
solidity with the airy fancies of her architects ; from 



1T6 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

the Persian, to dazzle with gorgeous show, and banquet 
with queenly pomp ; but of the Greek she learned to 
enrich the mind, of Longinus she learned to rule her 
spirit, to support prosperity, and prepare for adversity. 
She learned to avail herself of sources of happiness, 
and true grandeur, of which even that terrible reverse 
could not deprive her. And over all these accomplish- 
ments, these lofty attainments, were ever resting those 
native and peculiar graces, which signalized her from 
all others, and constituted the charm of the Palmyrene. 
And all she did was done so quickly — not more than 
half a score of years elapsed, from the time she was 
sole sovereign, ere she was a captive. What noble 
trophies might she have left behind, had life and peace 
been hers. " I would," said she, as she sat with her 
purple robe clasped with brilliants to her waist, and 
her bare arm raised, with the innate consciousness of 
mental strength — "I would, indeed, that the world 
were mine, and feel within the power to bless it were 
it so." 

But even her world was not to be spared — the little 
world which she had created, and which proudly 
owned her as its sovereign. It may be that in her 
researches into the history of nations, and rulers who 
were gone, she had prepared for a downfall, which was 
possible — that she had schooled her own proud spirit 
to bear calmly with injury and oppression. 

Even in her days of joyous pride and strength, she 
had studied the past ; she had draw^n up, for her own 
use and advantage, a history of the times which had 
gone; and could those annals have survived to coming 
generations, perhaps, as a literary work, this specimen, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 177 

of the first female historian, might not have compared 
unworthily, with the memento of that latest one, who 
was laid the first to rest in our own Momit Auburn. 

And yet the attainments of a faithful narrator, seem 
almost at variance with the other accomplishments and 
occupations of Zenobia. 

But when we leave her as a fallen Queen, we also 
resign the lovely woman, and talented historian. Her 
last appearance on the page of history, when, with 
unsandalled feet, and fettered limbs, she walked before 
that splendid chariot, in which she had vaunted she 
would enter Rome; when she was exhibited in that 
long procession, which might, perhaps, have been " a 
triumph " to Aurelian — this last sad scene is the close 
of the fitful drama. Though, in the brilliant constella- 
tion of the past, she is more like a meteor, than ^' a 
bright enduring star," yet she hath left a remembrance 
which cannot vanish from the earth. 

" Q,ueen of the Desert ! in that name there seems a thrilling spell ; 
It floats across the poet's heart, like a mighty trumpet's swell : 
I see a countless multitude in flowing robes arrayed ; 
I see the glittering scimetars, and the banners broad displayed ; 
I see the horses, black as death, with long manes flowing wide, 
And hoofs that spurn the burning sand, in their tameless power and pride ; 
I hear the wild horn shrilly blown, I hear the cymbals clash, 
And, with a shout, I see the troops to the fearful conflict dash, 
Each horseman striving for the prize, — smiles and approval won 
From her who bade the pageant be, — a peerless Amazon. 

'* Queen of the Desert! at the words another dream is framed, 
A stately woman sits enthroned. Queen of the waste proclaimed ; 
Her palace riseth proudly up midst deserts bare and old, 
And her presence chamber doth display ' barbaric pearl and gold ; ' 
Her maidens, gathered from the world, like flowers from many a land, 
With silver-woven veils, behind and round her footstool stand : 



178 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



She only with uncovered brow, and an unquailing eye, 

Beholds when loyal subjects wave the flashing sabre high ; 

She only sits, unlrembling, with calm majestic mien, 

While turban'd thousands bend the knee to hail the Desert Queen." 

Zenobia long survived the wreck of her kingdom, 
and power. Had she yielded life, when all else was 
taken, this total dissolution of the majesty of Palmyra 
must have claimed the notice of the historian. But 
his unbroken silence is like a deep earnest voice in her 
favor. Though she walked a living monument of 
Aurelian's prowess, with golden chams upon her arms, 
where Cleopatra, her predecessor, if not her ancestor, 
was carried in effigy, with the golden asp upon her 
breast, yet even his vindictive triumph could not de- 
grade her. It was a saying of Longinus, that "noth- 
ing is truly great which it is noble to despise," and 
Avhen his teachings came back to her, like a solemn 
echo from the tombs, when the light, which had shone 
upon her in the palace, streamed full into her prison, 
divested of its former dazzling glare, then she would 
see how great was its brightness. Her proud spirit 
was never crushed, or she would have striven for a 
secondary reputation, in " The Eternal City; " but in 
the sanctity of her deep retirement, she must have 
cherished truer and nobler views, of the true destiny 
of man, of the worthlessness of wealth and power, of 
the superior grandeur of mental attainments, of the 
ever-increasing value of philosophical acquirements 
and capacities, than she could have done ere 

" Palmyra, central in the desert, fell." 
Perhaps it would be wrong to leave this glorious woman 
without a tribute to her superiority over other sov- 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 179 

ereigns of that age, and even most of those of any age, 
in freedom of mind, in toleration. Hers was ever an 
inquiring mind, seeking truth in the past, the distant, 
and the mysterious. But all who wished could wor- 
ship in an inherited and settled faith. She listened to 
the Gentile, as he taught her of the deities of wood, of 
mount, and stream, but she also hearkened to the Jew, 
as he told her of the One only God. 

There were teachers in Rome of a new and despised 
religion when Zenobia was taken there a prisoner, and 
it was a religion peculiarly adapted to a lofty mind, 
and wounded heart. It was a religion which brought 
joy to the mourner, and a promise of deliverance to 
the captive. It may be that she heard of it in her 
seclusion, that she learned to obey its precepts, and 
receive its consolations; that something better than 
mere philosophy became her support, that she ceased 
to sigh over her "marble waste" when her thoughts 
were fixed upon a more truly Eternal City ; and that 
she ceased to regret an earthly diadem in her anticipa- 
tions of a crown which should never pass away. 



180 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

THE COUNTRY LAWYER 

ENGAGED IN HIS OWN SUIT, 



A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED TALE. 



The remembrance of Elliott Belsham^s misadventure 
lingered much longer in the minds of the witnesses 
than of the actor. His mind was of that class which 
thinks lightly of mistakes in dress, speech and demean- 
or, or rather which scarcely thinks of them at all. But 
whatever did affect his feelings, or impress his intellect, 
was almost always permanent. And what was there, 
at Mrs. Standrin's party, which conveyed a more last- 
ing impression than even his own luckless accident ? 
It was the beauty, sprightliness and splendid dress of 
Cornelia Willard. Yes ; she had not arrayed herself 
in the new and elegant challe for nought ; though the 
simple student was entirely unaware of the influence 
of the latter over his fancy. Cornelia had gained her 
end, and been acknowledged the belle of the party ; 
and the brilliance of her appearance had made captive 
one heart which could only be retained by an equal 
superiority of mind and heart. 

Elliott thought of Cornelia till it appeared to him 
that the possession of such loveliness was essential to 
his happiness ; and so he resolved to obtain possession, 
which is "nine tenths of the law," and the tenth he 
doubted not would follow as a matter of course. 

Do not let us sneer at the fawyer — older and wiser 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 181 

men than he was have been led astray by the charms 
of beauty ; and cold indeed must be the heart which is 
insensible to its influence, ere it has learned the lesson 
that " all is not gold that glitters." 

To Elliott Belsham all women were alike, — that is, 
all were truth, confidence and affection ; and differed 
but in their exterior. In this Cornelia excelled, and 
therefore to him was the queen of all the rest. 

Elliott also was a reasoning man. With him all sub- 
jects of importance were resolved into axioms, proposi- 
tions, syllogisms, &c. ; and he reasoned thus about his 
love, and its object : 

Firstly, Women like husbands ; 

Secondly, Cornelia Willard is a woman ; 

Therefore, Thirdly, she would like a husband. 

Then again he reasoned thus : 

Firstly, Men make husbands ; 

Secondly, Elliott Belsham is a man ; 

Therefore, Thirdly, he would make a husband. 

Taking the conclusions of the two syllogisms for the 
premises of a third, it followed thus : 

Firstly, Cornelia Willard would like a husband ; 

Secondly. Elliott Belsham would make a husband ; 

Therefore, Thirdly, Cornelia Willard would like 
Elliott Belsham. 

We may smile at the logic of the rustic lawyer, but 
do not half our young beaux reason thus? "I am a 
man, and she is a woman ; " and this thought is the 
foundation of their assurance. Elliott thought he had no 
more to do than to ask, and it should be given ; to seek, 
and he should find; and to knock, and he could ^^ come 



16 



182 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

The next consideration was — How to make the 
iirst advances. Lawyers consult precedents. ElHott 
did this ; and found it an estabhshed rule in all stat- 
utes, and love stories where the actors were discreet, 
sensible, prudent young men and women, that the lady 
should be first requested of her father, and then her 
own consent be solicited. With no preliminaries, ex- 
cepting the usual remarks about the weather and the 
last election, he broached his subject to deacon Willard. 

"Deacon, is your daughter engaged?" 

" Not as I knows on." 

" Are her aifections free ? " 

'' Why, she don't never tell me nothing about her 
love-scrapes ; though I guess she has as many fellers 
as any on 'em." 

"Well, if her feelings were deeply interested you 
would know of it ; and if any one had conceived a 
particular regard for her, they would, if honorable 
men, declare it through the medium of her father." 

" That 's what you 've come for now? " 

"Yes, deacon! and if you have no objections to 
receiving me for a son-in-law, I hope for your kind 
services in my behalf" 

"Well, I'm sure I've nothing to say agin it; for 
everybody tells as how you 're a real first-rate scholar, 
and always got up to the head in college ; and Squire 
Allerton thinks that none of 'em '11 ever go ahead on 
you in these parts, and mebbe you '11 be President one 
o' these long sunshiny days. Should'nt wonder myself!" 

"I have no such hopes, deacon; though, for your 
daughter's sake, I will exert every power. I will call 
this evening for her answer. Good morning." 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 183 

" Morning, sir ! " and the deacon turned from the 
breakfast room to his daughter's parlor. She had wit- 
nessed the departure of her wooer from the window. 

''Nealy, the young squire wants to come here 
courtin'." 

''Who does he want to court, father, me, or Kate 
O'Brien? " — the kitchen girl. 

" I should think you would be ashamed, when he's 
the likeliest feller in the States, to talk about him at 
this rate." 



THE PATCHWORK QUILT. 

There it is! in the inner sanctum of my ''old-maid's 
hall " — as cosy a little room as any lady need wish 
to see attached to her boudoir^ and gloomy only from 
the name attached to it — for there is much in a name ; 
and the merriest peal of laughter, if echoed from an 
"old-maid's hall," seems like the knell of girlhood's 
hopes. 

Yes, there is the patchwork quilt ! looking to the 
uninterested observer but a miscellaneous collection of 
odd bits and ends of calico, but to me it is a precious 
reliquary of past treasures ; a storehouse of valuables, 
almost destitute of intrinsic worth ; a herbarium of 
withered flowers; a bound volume of hieroglyphics, 
each of which is a key to some painful or pleasant re- 



184 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

membrance, a symbol of — but, ah, I am poetizing and 
spiritualizing over my "patchwork quilt." Gentle 
friends ! it contains a piece of each of my childhood's 
calico gowns, and of my mother's and sisters' ; and 
that is not all. 1 must tell 3^ou more, and then you 
will not wonder that I have chosen for this entertain- 
ment my patchwork quilt. 

It is one of my earliest recollections, and that of the 
memorable period when I emerged from babyhood to 
childhood — the commencement of this patchwork quilt. 
I was learning to sew ! O, the exultations, the aspira- 
tions, the hopes, the fears, the mortifications, the per- 
severance — in short, all moral emotions and valuable 
qualities and powers, were brought out in this grand 
achievement — the union of some little shreds of calico. 
And can T ever forget the long-suffering, patience, and 
forbearance of my kind mother? — her smiles and words 
of encouragement and sympathy; her generosity in the 
donation of calico bits ; her marvellous ingenuity in 
joining together pieces of all shapes, so that they would 
result in a perfect square ! Parents, never purchase 
for your children mathematical puzzles — you can 
teach them and amuse them by making patchwork. 

Nor must I forget the beautiful brass thimble that 
my father gave me, with the assurance that if I never 
would lose it he would one day give me one of silver! 
Nor the present of the kind old lady who expressed her 
gratification over my small stitches by a red broadcloth 
strawberry, which was introduced to me as an emery- 
bag. An emery-bag! its office and functions were all 
to be learned! How much there was that I did not 
know. But when I had so far learned to sew that five 



OF THE SEA OF GENIU?. 185 

minutes' interval of rest and triumph did not occur 
between every two stitches, the strenuous appUcation, 
by which I drove the perspiration from every pore of 
the hand, soon taught me the value of the emery-bag. 

what a heroine was I in driving the stitches! What 
a martyr under the pricks and inflictions of the needle, 
which often sent the blood from my fingers, but could 
not force a tear from my eyes ! These were the first 
lessons in heroism and fortitude. How much, too, I 
learned of the world's generosity in rewarding the 
efibrts of the industrious and enterprising. How many 
pieces in that quilt were presented because I ''could 
sew," and did seta, and was such an adept in sewing. 
What predictions that I should be a noted sempstress ; 
that I should soon be able to make shirts for my father, 
sheets for my mother, and nobody knows what not for 
little brothers and sisters. W^hat legends were told me 
of little girls who had learned patchwork at three 
years of age, and could put a shirt together at six. 
What magical words were gusset, felling, buttonhole- 
stitch, and so forth, each a Sesame, opening into 
arcana of workmanship — through and beyond which 

1 could see embroidery, hem-stitch, open-work, tam- 
bour, and a host of magical beauties. What predic- 
tions that I could some day earn my living by my 
needle — predictions, alas! that have most signally 
failed. 

Here, also, are the remembrances of another memo- 
rable period — the days when the child emerged into 
girlhood I — when the mind expanded beyond the influ- 
ence of calico patchwork, and it was laid aside for 
more important occupations. O what a change was 
16^ 



186 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

there ! Once there could have been nothing more im- 
portant — now the patchwork was almost beneath my 
notice. But there was another change. Muslin and 
lace, with cloths of more common texture, had long 
occupied my attention when my thoughts and efforts 
were returned to my patchwork quilt. Well do I re- 
member the boy who waited upon me home from sing- 
ing-school "six times running." I do not mean that 
he loaited ^^ 7i£immg,^^ but that he escorted me home 
six times in succession. What girl would not, under 
such circumstances, have resumed her patchwork 
quilt? But how stealthily it was done. Hitherto the 
patchwork joys had been enhanced by the sympathy, 
praises and assistance of others ; but now they were 
cherished "in secrecy and silence." But' the patch- 
work quilt bears witness to one of the first lessons 
upon the vanity of youthful hopes — the mutability of 
earthly wishes; and — and — any body might accom- 
pany me home six hundred times now, and such atten- 
tions would never be succeeded by a renewal of those 
patchwork hopes. Well do I remember the blushes of 
painful consciousness with which I met my sister's eye, 
when she broke into my sanctuary, and discovered my 
employment. By these alone might ni}^ secret have 
been discovered. 

But how many passages of my life seem to be epito- 
mized in this patchwork quilt. Here is the piece in- 
tended for the centre ; a star as I called it ; the rays of 
which are remnants of that bright copperplate cushion 
which graced my mother's easy chair. And here is a 
piece of that radiant cotton gingham dress which was 
purchased to wear to the dancing school. I have not 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 187 

forgotten the almost supernatural exertions by which I 
attempted to finish it in due season for the first night ; 
nor how my mantua-maker, with pious horror, en- 
deavored as strenuously to disappoint me ; but spite of 
her it was finished, and she was guiltless — finished, 
all but the neck-binding, and I covered that with my 
little embroidered cape. 

Here is a piece of the first dress I ever saw, cut with 
what were called "mutton-leg" sleeves. It was my 
sister's, and what a marvellous fine fashion we all 
thought that was. Here, too, is a remnant of the first 
"bishop sleeve" my mother wore ; and here is a frag- 
ment of the first gown that was ever cut for me with 
a bodice waist. Was there ever so graceful, beautiful- 
pointed a fashion for ladies' waists before ] Never, in 
my estimation. By this fragment I remember the 
gown with wings on the shoulders, in which I supposed 
myself to look truly angelic ; and, oh, down in this 
corner a piece of that in which I first felt myself a 
woman — that is, when I first discarded pantalettes. 

Here is a fragment of the beautiful gingham of 
which I had so scanty a pattern, and thus taxed my 
dress-maker's wits ; and here a piece of that of which 
mother and all my sisters had one with me. Wonder- 
ful coincidence of taste, and opportunity to gratify it ! 
Here is a piece of that mourning dress in which I 
thought my mother looked so genteel ; and here one of 
that which should have been warranted "not to wash," 
or to wash all white. Here is a fragment of the pink 
apron which I ornamented so tastefully with "tape 
trimming; " and here a piece of that which was pointed 
all around. Here is a token of kindness in the shape 



188 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

of a square of the old brocade-looking calico, presented 
by a venerable friend ; and here a piece given by the 
naughty little girl with whom I broke friendship, and 
then wished to take it out of its place, an act of ven- 
geance opposed by my then forbearing mother — on 
this occasion I thought too forbearing. Here is a frag- 
ment of the first dress which baby brother wore when 
he left off long clothes ; and here are relics of the long 
clothes themselves. Here a piece of that pink gingham 
frock, which for him was so splendidly decked with 
pearl buttons ; and here a piece of that for which he 
was so unthankful, for he thought he was big enough 
to wear something more substantial than calico frocks. 
Here is a piece of that calico which so admirably imi- 
tated vesting, and my mother — economical from neces- 
sity — bought it to make "waistcoats" for the boys. 
Here are pieces of that I thought so bright and beauti- 
ful to set off my quilt with, and bought strips of it by 
the cent's worth — strips more in accordance with the 
good dealer's benevolence than her usual price for the 
calico. Here is a piece of the first dress which was 
ever earned by my own exertions ! What a feeling of 
exultation, of self-dependence, of self-reliance^ was 
created by this effort. W hat expansion of mind ! — 
what awakening of dormant powers! Wellington was 
not prouder, when he gained the field of Waterloo, 
than I was with that gown. The belle, who purchases 
her dresses with the purse her father has always filled, 
knows not of the triumphant beatings of my heart 
upon this occasion ; and I might now select the richest 
silk without that honest heart-felt joy. To do for my- 
self — to earn my own living — to meet my daily 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 189 

expenses by my own daily toil, is now a task quite 
deprived of its novelty, and Time has robbed it of some 
of its pleasure. And here are patterns presented by 
kind friends, and illustrative of their tastes ; but enough 
for you. 

Then was another era in the history of my quilt. 
My sister — three years younger than myself — was in 
want of patchwork, while mine lay undisturbed, with 
no prospect of being ever called from its repository. 
Yes, she was to be married ; and I not spoken for ! 
She was to be taken, and I left. I gave her the patch- 
work. It seemed like a transference of girlish hopes 
and aspirations, or rather a finale to them all. Girl- 
hood had gone, and I was a woman. I felt this more 
than I had ever felt it before, for my baby sister was 
to be a wife. We arranged it into a quilt. Those 
were pleasant hours in which I sympathized so strongly 
in all her hopes that I made them mine. Then came 
the quilting : a party not soon to be forgotten, with its 
jokes and merriment. Here is the memento of a mis- 
chievous brother, who was determined to assist, other- 
wise than by his legitimate occupation of rolling up the 
quilt as it was finished, snapping the chalk-line, passing 
thread, wax and scissors, and shaking hands across the 
quilt for all girls with short arms. He must take the 
thread and needle. Well, we gave him white thread, 
and appointed him to a very dark piece of calico, so 
that we might pick it out the easier; but there ! to 
spite us, he did it so nicely that it still remains, a me- 
mento of his skill with the needle — there in that corner 
of the patchwork quilt. 

And why did the young bride exchange her snowy 



tW SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

counterpane for the patchwork quiU ? These dark 
stains at the top of it will tell — stains left by the 
night medicines, taken in silence and darkness, as 
though to let another know of her pains and remedies 
would make her sickness more real. As though Dis- 
ease would stay his hand if met so quietly, and re- 
pulsed so gently. The patchwork quilt rose and fell 
with the heavings of her breast as she sighed in the 
still night over the departing joys of youth, of health, 
of newly wedded life. Through the bridal chamber 
rang the knell-like cough, which told us all that we 
must prepare for her an early grave. The patchwork 
quilt shrouded her wasted form as she sweetly resigned 
herself to the arms of Death, and fell with the last low 
sigh which breathed forth her gentle spirit. Then set- 
tled upon the lovely form, now stiffening, cold and 
lifeless. 

And back to me, with all its memories of childhood, 
youth, and maturer years ; its associations of joy and 
sorrow ; of smiles and tears ; of life and death, has re- 
turned The Patchwork (oIuilt. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 191 



TILLAGE PASTORS. 



The old village-pastor of New England, was '' a 
man having authority." His deacons were under him, 
and not, as is now often the case, his tyrannical rulers ; 
and whenever his parishioners met him, they doffed 
their hats, and said, "Your reverence." Whatever 
passed his lips was both law and gospel ; and when 
too old and infirm to minister to his charge, he was not 
turned away, like a worn-out beast, to die of hunger, 
or gather up, with failing strength, the coarse bit which 
might eke out a little longer his remaining days ; but 
he was still treated with all the deference, and support- 
ed with all the munificence which was believed due to. 
him whom they regarded as ''God's vicegerent upon 
earth." He deemed himself, and was considered by 
his parishioners, if not infallible, yet something ap- 
proaching it. Those were indeed the days of glory 
for New England clergymen. 

Perhaps I am wrong. The present pastor of New 
England, with his more humble mien and conciliatory 
tone, his closer application and untiring activity, may 
be, in a wider sphere, as interesting an object of con- 
templation. Many are the toils, plans and enterprises 
entrusted to him, which in former days were not per- 
mitted to interfere with the duties exclusively apper- 
taining to the holy vocation ; yet with added labors, 
the modern pastor receives neither added honors, nor 
added remuneration. Perhaps it is well — nay, perhaps 
it is better ; but I am confident that if the old pastor 



192' SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

could return, and take a bird's-eye view of the situa- 
tions of his successors, he would exclainij "How has 
the glory departed from Israel, and how have they 
cast down the sons of Levi ! " 

I have been led to these reflections by a contempla- 
tion of the characters of the first three occupants of 
the pulpit in my native village. 

Our old pastor was settled, as all then were, for life. 
I can remember him but in his declining years, yet 
even then was he a hale and vigorous old man. Hon- 
ored and beloved by all his flock, his days passed un- 
disturbed by the storms and tempests which have since 
then so often darkened and disturbed the theological 
world. The opinions and creeds, handed down by his 
Pilgrim Fathers, he carefully cherished, neither adding 
thereto, nor taking therefrom ; and he indoctrinated the 
young m all the mysteries of the true faith, with an un- 
doubting belief in its infallibility. There was much of 
the patriarch in his look and manner ; and this was 
heightened by the nature of his avocations, in which 
pastoral labors were mingled with clerical duties. No 
farm was in better order than that at the parsonage ; no 
fields looked more thriving, and no flocks were more 
profitable, than were those of the good clergyman. 
Indeed, he sometimes almost forgot his spiritual field, 
in the culture of that which was more earthy. 

^One Saturday afternoon, the minister was very busily 
engaged in hay-making. His good wife had observed 
that during the week he had been unusually engrossed 
in temporal affairs, and feared for the well-being of his 
flock, as she saw that he could not break the earthly 
spell, even upon this last day of the week. She looked. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 193 

and looked in vain, for his return ; until, finding him 
wholly lost to a sense of his higher duties, she deemed 
it her duty to remind him of them. So away she went 
to the haying field, and when she was in sight of the 
Reverend haymaker, she screamed out, "Mr. W. ! 
Mr. W. ! " 

'^ What, my dear? " shouted Mr. W. in return. 

" Do you intend to feed your people with hay, to- 
morrow ?" 

This was a poser — and Mr. W. dropped his rake, 
and, repairing to his study, spent the rest of the day in 
the preparation of food more meet for those who looked 
so trustfully to him for the bread of life. 

His faithful companion was taken from him, and 
those who knew of his strong and refined attachment 
to her, said truly, when they prophesied, that he would 
never marry again. 

She left one son — their only child — a boy of noble 
feelings and superior intellect ; and his father carefully 
educated him with the fond wish that he would one 
day succeed him in the sacred office of a minister of 
God. He hoped indeed that he might even fill the 
very pulpit which he must at some time vacate ; and 
he prayed that his own life might be spared until this 
hope had been realized. 

Endicott W. was also looked upon as their future 
pastor by many of the good parishioners ; and never 
did a more pure and gentle spirit take upon himself 
the task of preparing to minister to a people in holy 
things. He was the beloved of his father, the only 
child who had ever blessed him — for he had not mar- 
ried till late in life, and the warm affections which had 
17 



194 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

been so tardily bestowed upon one of the gentler sex, 
were now with an unusual fervor lavished upon this 
image of her who was gone. 

When Endicott W. returned home, having completed 
his studies at the University, he was requested by our 
parish to settle as associate pastor with his father, 
whose failing strength was unequal to the regular dis- 
charge of his parochial duties. It was indeed a beau- 
tiful sight to see that old man, with bending form and 
silvery locks, joining in the public ministrations with 
his young and gifted son — the one with a calm expres- 
sion of trusting faith ; the countenance of the other 
beaming with that of enthusiasm and hope. 

Endicott was ambitious. He longed to see his own 
name placed in the bright constellation of famed the- 
ologians ; and though he knew that years must be 
spent in toil for the attainment of that object, he was 
willing that they should be thus devoted. The mid- 
night lamp constantly witnessed the devotions of En- 
dicott W. at the shrine of science; and the wasting 
form and fading cheek told what would be the fate of 
the infatuated worshipper. 

It was long before our young pastor, his aged father, 
and the idolizing people who were so proud of his tal- 
ents, and such admirers of his virtues, — it was long 
ere these could be made to believe he was dying ; but 
Endicott W. departed from life, as a bright cloud fades 
away in a noon-day sky — for his calm exit was sur- 
rounded by all which makes a death-bed glorious. His 
aged father said, '' The Lord gave, and the Lord hath 
taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord." And 
then he went again before his flock, and endeavored 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 195 

to reconcile them to their loss, and dispense again the 
comforts and blessings of the gospel, trusting that his 
strength would still be spared, until one, who was even 
then preparing, should be ready to take his place. 



Shall I tell you now of my own old home? It 
was a rude farm-house, almost embowered by ancient 
trees, which covered the sloping hill-side on which it 
was situated ; and it looked like an old pilgrim, who 
had crawled into the thicket to rest his limbs, and hide 
his poverty. My parents were poor, toihng, care-worn 
beings, and in a hard struggle for the comforts of this 
life, had almost forgotten to prepare for that which is 
to come. It is true, the outward ordinances of reli- 
gion were never neglected ; but the spirit, the feeling, 
the interest, in short, all that is truly deserving the 
name of piety, was wanting. My father toiled, through 
the burning heat of summer, and the biting frost of 
winter, for his loved ones ; and my mother also labored 
from the first dawn of day till a late hour at night, 
in behalf of her family. She was true to her duties 
as wife and mother, but it was from no higher motive 
than the instincts which prompt the fowls of the air to 
cherish their brood ; and though she perhaps did not 
believe that " labor was the end of hfe," still her con- 
duct would have given birth to that supposition. 

I had been for some time the youngest of the famil^r^ 
when a little brother was born. He was warmly wel- 
comed by us, though we had long believed the family 
circle complete. We were not then aware at how dear 



196 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND^ 

a price the little stranger was to be purchased. From 
the moment of his birth, my mother never knew an 
hour of perfect health. She had previously injured 
her constitution by unmitigated toil, and now were the 
effects to be more sensibly felt. She lived very many 
years ; but it was the life of an invalid. 

Reader, did you ever hear of the " thirty years' con- 
sumption ? " a disease at present unknown in New 
England — for that scourge of our climate will now 
complete in a few months the destruction which it took 
^rears of desperate struggle to perform, upon the con- 
stitutions of our more hardy ancestors. 

My mother was in such a consumption — that disor- 
der which comes upon its victim like the Aurorean 
flashes in an Arctic sky, now vivid in its pure loveli- 
ness, and then shrouded in a sombre gloom. Now we 
hoped, nay, almost believed, she was to be again quite 
well, and anon we watched around a bed from which 
we feared she would never arise. 

It was strange to us, who had always seen her so 
unremitting in her toilsome labors, and so careless in 
her exposure to the elements, to watch around her now 
— to shield her from the lightest breeze, or the slightest 
dampness of the air — to guard her from all intrusion, 
and relieve her from all care — to be always reserving 
for her the warmest place by the fire-side, and pre- 
paring the choicest bit of food — to be ever ready to 
pillow her head and bathe her brow — in short, to be 
never unconscious of the presence of disease. Our 
steps grew softer, and our voices lower, and the still- 
ness of our manners had its influence upon our minds. 
The hush was upon our spirits ; and there can surely 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 197 

be nothing so effectual in carrying the soul before its 
Maker, as disease ; and it may truly be said to every 
one who enters the chamber of sickness, " The place 
whereon thou standest is holy ground." 

My little brother was to us an angel sent from 
heaven. He possessed a far more delicate frame and 
lofty intellect than any other member of the family ; 
and his high, pale brow, and brilliant eyes, were 
deemed sure tokens of uncommon genius. My mother, 
herself, watched with pleasure these indications of 
talent, although the time had been when a predilection 
for literary pursuits would have been thought incon- 
sistent with the common duties which we were all 
born to fulfil. 

We had always respected the learned and talented, 
but it was with a feeling akin to the veneration we 
felt for the inhabitants of the spiritual world. They 
were far above us, and we were content to bow in 
reverence. Our thoughts had been restricted to the 
narrow circle of every-day duties, and our highest 
aspirations were, to be admitted at length, as specta- 
tors, to the glory of a material heaven, where streets 
of gold, and thrones of ivory, form the magnificence 
of the place. It was different now. With a nearer 
view of that better world, to which my mother had 
received her summons, came also more elevated spirit- 
ual and blissful views of its glory and perfection. It 
was another heaven, for she was another being ; and 
she would have been willing at any moment to have 
resigned the existence which she held by so frail a ten- 
ure, had it not been for the sweet child, which seemed 
17# 



198 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

to have been sent from that brighter world to hasten 
and prepare her for departure. 

Our pastor was now a constant visitant. Hitherto 
he had found but httle to invite him to our humble 
habitation. He had been received with awe and con- 
straint, and the topics upon which he loved to dwell 
touched no chord in the hearts of those whom he ad- 
dressed. But now my mother was anxious to poLir 
into his ears all the new-felt sentiments and emotions 
with which her heart was filled. She wished to share 
his sympathy, and receive his instructions ; for she 
felt painfully conscious of her extreme ignorance. 

It was our pastor who first noticed in my little 
brother the indications of mental superiority, and we 
felt them as though the magical powers of some fa- 
vored order of beings had been transferred to one in 
our own home-circle ; and we loved the little Winthrop 
(for father had named him for the old Governor) with 
a stronger and holier love than we had previously felt 
for each other. And in these new feelings how much 
was there of happiness ! Though there was now less 
health, and of course less wealth, in our home, yet 
there was also more pure joy. 

I have sometimes been out upon the barren hill-side, 
and thought that there was no pleasure in standing on 
a spot so desolate. I have been again in the same bare 
place, and there was a balmy odor in the delicious air, 
which made it bliss but to inhale the fragrance. Some 
spicy herb had carpeted the ground, and though too 
lowly and simple to attract the eye, yet the charm it 
threw around the scene was not less entrancing be- 
cause so viewless and unobtrusive. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 199 

Such was the spell shed around our lowly home by 
the presence of religion. It was with us the exhala- 
tion from lowly plants, and the pure fragrance went up 
the more freely because they had been bruised. In our 
sickness and poverty we had joy in the present, and 
bright hopes for the future. 

It was early decided that Winthrop should be a 
scholar. Our pastor said it must be so, and Endicott, 
who was but a few years older, assisted him in his 
studies. They were very much together, and, except- 
ing in their own families, had no other companion. 
But when my brother returned from the pastor's study 
with a face radiant with the glow of newly acquired 
knowledge, and a heart overflowing in its desire to im- 
part to others, he usually went to his pale, emaciated 
mother, to give vent to his sensations of joy, and came 
to me to bestow the boon of knowledge. I was the 
nearest in age. I had assisted to rear his infancy, and 
been his constant companion in childhood ; and now 
our intercouse was to be continued and strengthened, 
amidst higher purposes and loftier feelings. I was the 
depositary of all his hopes and fears, the sharer of all 
his plans for the future ; and his aim was then to follow 
in the footsteps of Endicott W. If he could only be 
as good, as kind and learned, he should think himself 
one of the best of mankind. 

When Endicott became our pastor, my brother was 
ready to enter College, with the determination to con- 
secrate himself to the same high calling. It seemed 
hardl}^ like reality to us, that one of our own poor 
household was to be an educated man. We felt lifted 
up — not with pride — for the feeling which elevated 



200 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

US was too pure for that ; but we esteemed ourselves 
better than we had ever been before, and strove to be 
more worthy of the high gift which had been bestowed 
upon us. When my brother left home, it was with 
the knowledge that self-denial was to be practised, for 
his sake, by those who remained ; but he also knew 
that it was to be willingly, nay, joyously performed. 
Still he did not know all. Even things, which here- 
tofore, in our poverty, we had deemed essential to com- 
fort, were now resigned. We did not even permit my 
mother to know how differently the table was spread 
for her than for our own frugal repast. Neither was 
she aware how late and pamfully I toiled to prevent 
the hire of additional service upon our little farm. 
The joy in the secret depths of my heart was its own 
reward ; and never yet have I regretted an effort or a 
sacrifice made then. It was a discipline like the re- 
finer's fire, and but for my brother, I should never 
have been even as, with all my imperfections, 1 trust I 
am now. 

My brother returned from College as the bright sun 
of Endicott W.'s brief career was low in a western 
sky. He had intended to study with him for the same 
vocation — and with him he did prepare. O, there 
could have been no more fitting place to imbue the 
mind with that wisdom which cometh from above, 
than the sick room at our pastor's. 

*' The chamber where the good man meets his fate, 
Is privileged beyond the common walks of life," — 

and Endicott' s was like the shelter of some bright 
spirit from the other world, who, for the sake of those 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 201 

about him, was delaying for a wliile his return to the 
home above. My brother was with him in his latest 
hours, and received as a dying bequest the charge of 
his people. The parish also were anxious that he 
should be Endicott's successor; and in the space re- 
quested for farther preparation, our old pastor returned 
to his pulpit. 

But he had overrated his own powers ; and besides, 
he was growing blind. There were indeed those who 
said that, notwithstanding his calmness in the presence 
of others, he had in secret wept his sight away ; and 
that while a glimmer of it remained, the curtain of 
his window, which overlooked the grave-yard, had 
never been drawn. He ceased his labors, but a tem- 
porary substitute was easily found — for, as old Deacon 
S. remarked, " There are many ministers noiv^ who are 
glad to go out to day's labor." 

My mother had prayed that strength might be im- 
parted to her feeble frame, to retain its rejoicing inhab- 
itant until she could see her son a more active laborer 
in the Lord's vineyard ; " and then," said she, " I can 
depart in peace." For years she had hoped the time 
would come, but dared not hope to see it. But life 
was graciously spared, and the day which was to see 
him set apart as peculiarly a servant of his God, 
dawned upon her in better health than she had known 
for years. Perhaps it was the glad spirit which im- 
parted its renewing glow to the worn body, but she 
went with us that day to the service of ordination. 
The old church was thronged; and as the expressions 
of thankfulness went up from the preacher's lips, that 
one so worthy was then to be dedicated to this service, 



202 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

my own heart was subdued by the solemn joy that he 
was one of us. My own soul was poured out in all 
the exercises ; but when the charge was given, there 
was also an awe upon all the rest. 

Our aged pastor had been led into his pulpit, that 
he might perform this ceremony ; and when he arose 
with his silvery locks, thinned even since he stood 
there last, and raised his sightless eyes to heaven, I 
freely wept. He was in that pulpit where he had stood 
so many years, to warn, to guide and to console ; and 
probably each familiar face was then presented to his 
imagination. He was where his dear departed son had 
exercised the ministerial functions, and the same part 
of the service which he had performed at his ordina- 
tion, he was to enact again for his successor. The 
blind old man raised his trembling hand, and laid it 
upon the head of the young candidate; and as the 
memories of the past came rushing over him, he burst 
forth in a strain of heart-stirring eloquence. There was 
not a tearless eye in the vast congregation ; and the 
remembrance of that hour had doubtless a hallowing 
influence upon the young pastor's life. 

My brother was settled for five years, and as we de- 
parted from the church, I heard Deacon S. exclaim, in 
his bitterness against modern degeneracy in spiritual 
things, that "the old pastor was settled /or ///e." "So 
is the new one," said a low voice in reply; and for the 
first time the idea was presented to my mind that 
Winthrop was to be, like Endicott W., one of the early 
called. 

But the impression departed in my constant inter- 
course with him in his home — for our lowly dwelling 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 203 

was Still the abode of the new pastor. He would 
never remove from it while his mother lived, and an 
apartment was prepared for him adjoining hers. They 
were pleasant rooms, for during the few past years he 
had done much to beautify the place, and the shrubs 
which he had planted were already at their growth. 
The thick vines also which had struggled over the 
building, were now gracefully twined around the win- 
dows, and some of the old trees cut down, that we 
might be allowed a prospect. Still all that could con- 
duce to beauty was retained ; and I have often thought 
how easily and cheaply the votary of true taste can 
enjoy its pleasures. 

Winthrop was now so constantly active and cheerful, 
that T could not think of death as connected with him. 
But I knew that he was feeble, and watched and cher- 
ished him, as I had done when he was but a little 
child. Though in these respects his guardian, in 
others I was his pupil. I sat before him, as Mary did 
at the Messiah's feet, and gladly received his instruc- 
tions. My heart went out with him in all the various 
functions of his calling. I often went with him to the 
bed-side of the sick, and to the habitations of the 
wretched. None knew better than he did, how to still 
the throbbings of the wrung heart, and administer con- 
solation. 

I was present also when, for the first time, he 
sprinkled an infant's brow with the waters of conse- 
cration ; and when he had blessed the babe, he also 
prayed that we might all become even as that little 
child. I was with him, too, when for the first time he 
joined in holy bands those whom none but God should 



204 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

ever put asunder; and if the remembrance of the fer- 
vent petition which went up for them, has dwelt as 
vividly in their hearts as it has in mine, that prayer 
must have had a holy influence upon their lives. 

I have said that I remember his first baptism and 
wedding ; but none who were present will forget his 
first funeral. It was our mother's. She had lived so 
much beyond our expectations, and been so graciously 
permitted to witness the fulfilment of her dearest hope, 
that when at length the spirit winged its flight, we all 
joined in the thanksgiving which went up from the 
lips of her latest-born, that she had been spared so 
long. 

It was a beautiful Sabbath — that day appointed for 
her funeral — but in the morning, a messenger came 
to tell us that the clergyman whom we expected was 
taken suddenly ill. What could be done ? Our old 
pastor was then confined to his bed, and on this day 
all else were engaged. ''I will perform the services 
myself," said Win throp. "I shall even be happy to 
do it." 

"Nay," said I, "you are feeble, and already spent 
with study and watching. It must not be so." 

" Do not attempt to dissuade me, sister," he replied. 
"There will be many to witness the interment of her 
who has hovered upon the brink of the grave so long; 
and has not almost every incident of her life, from my 
very birth, been a text from which important lessons 
may be drawn?" And then, fixing his large mild 
eyes full upon me, as though he would utter a truth 
which duty forbade him longer to suppress, he added, 
" I dare not misimprove this opportunity. This first 



OF THE ShA OF GENIUS. 205 

death in 7ny parish may also be the last. Nay, weep 
not, my sister, because I may go next. The time at 
best is short, and I must work while the day lasts." 

I did not answer. My heart was full, and I turned 
away. That day my brother ascended his pulpit to 
conduct the funeral services, and in them he did make 
of her life a lesson to all present. But when he ad- 
dressed himself particularly to the young, the middle- 
aged, and the old, his eyes kindled, and his cheeks 
glowed, as he varied the subject to present the "king 
of terrors " in a different light to each. Then he turned 
to the mourners. And who were they 7 His own aged 
father, the companion of many years of her who was 
before them in her shroud. His own brothers and 
sisters, and the little ones of the third generation, whose 
childish memories had not even yet forgotten her dying 
blessing. He essayed to speak, but in vain. The flush 
faded from his cheek till he was deadly pale. Again 
he attempted to address us, and again in vain. He 
raised his hand, and buried his face in the folds of his 
white handkerchief I also covered my eyes, and 
there was a deep stillness throughout the assembly. At 
that moment I thought more of the living than of the 
dead ; and then there was a rush among the great con- 
gregation, like the sudden bursting forth of a mighty 
torrent. 

I raised my eyes, but could see no one in the pulpit. 
The next instant, it was filled. I also pressed forward, 
and unimpeded ascended the steps, for all stood back 
that I might pass. I reached him as he lay upon the seat 
where he had fallen, and the handkerchief, which was 
still pressed to his lips, was wet with blood. They 
18 



206 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

bore him down, and through the aisle ; and when he 
passed the coffin, he raised his head, and gazed a mo- 
ment upon that calm, pale face. Then casting upon 
all around, a farewell glance, he sunk gently back, and 
closed his eyes. 



A few evenings after, I was sitting by his bed-side. 
The bright glow of a setting sun penetrated the white 
curtains of his windows, and fell with softened lustre 
upon his face. The shadows of the contiguous foliage 
were dancing upon the curtains, the floor, and the 
snowy drapery of his bed ; and as he looked faintly 
up, he murmured, "It is a beautiful world ; but the 
other is glorious, O very glorious ! and my mother is 
there, and Endicott. See ! they are beckoning to me, 
and smiling joyfully ! — Mother, dear mother, and 
Endicott, I am coming ! " 

His voice and looks expressed such conviction of the 
reality of what he saw, that I also looked up to see 
those beautiful spirits. My glance of disappointment 
recalled him; and he smiled as he said, "I think it 
was a dream; but it will be reality soon. — Do not go," 
said he, as I arose to call for others. "Do not fear, 
sister. The bands are very loose, and the spirit will 
go gently, and perhaps even before you could return." 

I re-seated myself, and pressing his wasted hand in 
mine, I watched, 

" As through his breast, the wave of life 
Heaved gently to and fro." 

A few moments more, and I was alone with the dead. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 207 

We buried Winthrop by the side of Endicott W., 
and the old pastor was soon laid beside them. * ^ * 

Years have passed since then, and I still love to visit 
those three graves. But other feelings mingle with 
those which once possessed my soul. I hear those 
whose high vocation was once deemed a sure guarantee 
for their purity, either basely calumniated, or terribly 
condemned. Their morality is questioned, their sin- 
cerity doubted, their usefulness denied, and their pre- 
tensions scoffed at. It may be that unholy hands are 
sometimes laid upon the ark, and that change of times 
forbids such extensive usefulness as was in the power 
of the clergyman of New England in former days. 
But when there comes a muttering cry of "Down with 
the priesthood!" and a denial of the good which they 
have eflected, my soul repels the insinuation, as though 
it were blasphemy. I think of the first three pastors 
of our village, and I reverence the ministerial office and 
its labors, 

" If I but remember only, 

That such as these have lived, and died." 



THE FURBELOWED BONNET. 

" Gracious me ! Do look at that girl with the furbe- 
lowed bonnet !" exclaims an elegant young miss, as 
she meets upon the promenade a country maiden who 
is sporting — with eyes, smile, and step exultant — a 
neiv bonnet. 



208 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

The city maiden titters, ogles her gallant, curls her 
lips scornfully, as the fnrbelowed bonnet passes by, 
and, by her exclamations of surprise and contempt 
succeeds in riveting the attention of her companion 
upon her own more tasteful head-gear. 

Now let us go back to the coimtry girl, and to the 
bonnet from the time it first existed in her fancy. It is 
the first bonnet Miss Rustic has ever selected for her- 
self. Her mother, with an eye rather to comfort and 
economy than taste and beauty, made all the hoods and 
bonnets which she wore in childhood, to school and to 
meeting. Since then, the cast-off bonnets of some 
wealthier cousins have, after a little alteration, served 
all needful purposes ; but when she arrives, if not .at 
years of discretion, yet at those of girlish ambition, 
and the woman awakens within her, the desire to gra- 
tify her own taste and secure the approbation or admi- 
ration of others, leads to the contemplation of a new 
bonnet of her own choice. 

How shall she get it 1 Why, her good mother has 
promised her all the yarn she will knit, and her kind 
cousin in the city will pay her cash for all the footings 
she will bring or send to his store. So she knits during 
the long winter evenings, and even by a pine- torch 
light during the short winter mornings, and in the dis- 
tant school-house at the noon-tide hour. While the 
needles are plying so dexterously she thinks of many 
things that she will purchase, biit above all of the new 
bonnet. In imagination it is selected, trimmed, paid 
for, and worn. She sees the old ladies look through 
their spectacles at her as she exhibits it in the meeting- 
house, and even the grey-headed men cannot forbear a 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 209 

passing glance at such a new bonnet. The young 
women and the girls gaze intently with envy, or admi- 
ration, or both, and the young men look curiously at 
her, all but one, whose hasty glance betrays a far deeper 
interest than mere curiosity ; and she wonders whether 
he will look with perfect satisfaction upon the new 
bonnet. 

But in her ''maiden meditation" the bonnet is many 
times altered, retrimmed, and otherwise varied; and 
indeed there are times when she is wholly at a loss 
about it. Sometimes it is of straw, sometimes of silk, 
and anon it is of colored cambric. Sometimes a frame 
bonnet, and then she prefers a drawn bonnet. Then 
again she thinks she will not decide upon it until she 
goes to purchase, for there may be something in the 
city more beautiful than she can devise. 

The winter passes, and then comes spring. But she 
will not be in too great a hurry about the new bonnet. 
The footings are not all sold, and she has not received 
the proceeds of the last package. And when that is 
settled the weather is not established, and who would 
spoil a new bonnet such damp, drizzly spring Sabbaths. 
And when pleasant weather comes it is so late that she 
will not buy until the summer fashions have arrived. 

And when that time comes something happens every 
day that she fixes for a ride to the city. Father wants 
the horse and wagon one day, and mother has the 
headache or unexpected company another, it is rainy, 
or she is invited from home herself, or some other casu- 
alty prevents, and it seems as though she were never 
to go. 

But patience overcome th all obstacles, and all in 
18* 



210 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

good time she finds herself consuUmg the milliners' 
windows and bonnet racks. But after so long self- 
consLdtation she has grown chusy and " hard to please." 
One is pretty enough, but the price is too high, another 
would do nicely for summer only, but hers must serve 
in all seasons, excepting the stormiest winter time, when 
it will do to wear a hood. She fancies another, but 
her judgment tells her that it will not be profitable, for 
it will soil too quickly, and another is too frail, and 
will not last the years that she must make one bonnet 
serve. 

A milliner, who is very anxious to please her, at 
length offers to make one to order, upon the spot. So 
she chooses the frame after much deliberation upon its 
probable strength and durability, and long wondering 
whether it had really better be of "foundation " or not ; 
and even after the milliner has commenced operations, 
she stops her to inquire whether she had not, after all, 
better purchase a " straw " ! But the lady will not re- 
cede from the prices fixed upon her good straw bonnets, 
and she returns at length to her " foundation muslin 
frame." Then succeeds a long consultation over the 
different colored silks, with which to cover it, but 
finally, all are discarded as too expensive, and she fixes 
her choice upon a light brown cambric muslin, which 
will be so good and cheap and durable, and withal can 
be taken off", washed, starched and ironed when it is 
soiled. 

Then comes the trimming. That shall be of the 
same and edged with "narrow blonde." But this does 
not look gay enough after it is done. Who would be 
attracted by such a sober-looking bonnet? Indeed 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 211 

some might not notice that it was a new bonnet after 
all. There must be some ribbon intermingled. Shall 
it be pink or blue or pale yellow ? She cannot decide. 
The milliner encourages her to take two ribbons, for 
blue and straw color will blend together so prettily. So 
she defers to her adviser, but when it is nearly finished 
her eye is attracted to a box of cheap flowers just 
opened. O how she wishes it were trimmed with 
flowers ! She did think how much prettier it would 
look, but their flowers in the show case were so expen- 
sive ! What a pity ! Will not the lady take off" the 
ribbon and let her have the flowers ? 

The milliner declines taking off" the ribbon, but a 
mischievous little apprentice, with a very demure face, 
tells her that this slender wreath will look beautifully, 
intermingled with the other trimming. Our rustic 
is over-persuaded by her own ardent fancy, and the 
artful suggestions of the little gipsey, who is stealth- 
ily making fun for all her companions and for future 
days. 

The wreath, after much chaffering about the price — 
which is greatly reduced after the apprentice has whis- 
pered in the ear of her employer, is purchased and 
added to the other trimming. And then comes the 
'-' inside trimming." There must be narrow blonde 
about the edge of the front, and a lace cappee with 
flowers, and there must also be some blue and straw- 
colored " taste" to match with the ribbon on the outside. 

At length the important business is transacted, the 
cherished avails of the winter's labors are nearly spent, 
but she feels that they have been wisely appropriated. 

The long day is almost gone ; but forgetting her 



212 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

fatigue she takes her old bonnet in her hand, covers it 
with her kerchief, dons the new one, and steps out 
upon the promenade as proud and happy as any belle 
in the city. As she proceeds towards the place where 
her father will meet her with the wagon, she sees many 
eyes turned towards her, and is not mistaken in think- 
ing that their glances are directed towards her new 
bonnet. She does not even imagine that those smiles 
are of covert contempt, surprise and ridicule, and the 
open laugh she attributes to envy, or to some cause 
unconnected with herself or her new bonnet. But the 
loud ejaculation of the Miss, who draws attention upon 
her own as well as the fiirbelowed bonnet, almost 
dispels her illusion. She looks hard into the face of 
the scornful one, and seeing there neither the expres- 
sion of kind nor refined feeling, she concludes that the 
lady is also destitute of good taste, and that her com- 
ments upon the new bonnet may go for what they are 
worth. 

Yet Miss Scornful has exquisite taste in dress — so 
all her admirers say, and they would at this moment 
point to the bonnet she wears as proof It is truly and 
simply beautiful. Her love of rich trimming, plumes 
and brilliant colors has been gratified in her winter 
hat. 

Her spring straw, with its beautiful bright wreath 
glittering with spanglets, was the envy of all the young 
misses in their street, and during this very day was 
the summer bonnet chosen in her morning's shopping 
excursion. 

Passing by Mademoiselle De Fleury's, her eyes were 
riveted by "aw elegant affair ^^^ a frame as graceful in 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 213 

its form as an opening floweret, covered with ''rice 
lace " as delicate as the muslin of the Orient, in which 
the dotting sprigs and vine-wreathed edge seem to 
have sprung beneath some light and magic touch, as 
flowerets ornament the crystal which has just been 
traced by the spear of the frost spirit. Without asking 
the price she orders the trimming, of transparent tarle- 
ton, which is wound around the crown in folds as hght 
and graceful as those which rim the turban of an Emir, 
while the pale pink, which is intertwined beneath, 
sends through the silvery gauze, a blush as pure and 
beautiful as that which gleams from the interior of 
some delicate shell. A slight rosette, of silvery white 
OA^ershadowing the hue of the blush rose, rests like 
a sweet blossom on the left side, and the gauze strings, 
with their exquisite pink edge, stream on the passing 
breeze like the pennon of a naiad. The flowers, which, 
from within, lend their glow to the pure airy lining 
and the lily cheek on which they rest, can but remind 
one of those lovely blossoms which raise their heads 
between rifts of Alpine snow. 

It is elegant ! but yet the same natural love of the 
beautiful, the same desire to secure admiration, a more 
single-hearted endeavor to find much favor in the eyes 
of " one alone," the gratification of a girlish vanity, 
more harmless, far more free from bitter and unamiable 
feeling, have been exhibited by " the girl with the 
furbelowed bonnet." 



214 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



SCENES ON THE MERRIMAC. 

I HAVE been but a slight traveller, and the beautifcil 
rivers of our country have, with but one or two ex- 
ceptions, rolled their bright waves before " the orbs of 
fancy" alone, and not to my visual sense. But the 
few specimens which have been favored me of river 
scenery, have been very happy in the influence they 
have exerted upon my mind, in favor of this feature of 
natural loveliness. 

I do not wonder that the ''stream of his fathers" 
should be ever so favorite a theme with the poet, and 
that wherever he has sung its praise, that spot should 
henceforth be as classic ground. Wherever some 
"gently roUing river" has whispered its soft murmurs 
to the recording muse, its name has been linked with 
his ; and far as that name may extend, is the beauty 
of that inspiring streamlet appreciated. 

Helicon and Castalia are more frequently referred to 
than Parnassus, — and even the small streams of hilly 
Scotland are renowned wherever the songs of her poet 
"are said or sung." " The banks and braes o' bonny 
Doon," are duly applauded in the drawing-rooms of 
America ; and the Tweed, the "clear winding Devon," 
the "braes of Ayr," the "banks of Ballockmyle," and 
the "sweet Afton," so often the theme of his lays, for 
his " Mary 's asleep by its murmuring stream," are 
names even here quite as familiar, perhaps more so, 
than our own broad and beauteous rivers. Such is the 
hallowing power of genius, and upon whatever spot 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 215 

she may cast her bright, unfading mantle, there is for- 
ever stamped the impress of beauty. 

"The Bard of Avon" is an honorary title wherever 
our language is read ; and though we may have few 
streams which have as yet been sacred to the muse, 
yet time will doubtless bring forth those, whose genius 
shall make the Indian cognomens of our noble rivers, 
names associated with all that is lofty in intellect and 
beautiful in poetry. 

The Merrimac has already received the grateful 
tribute of praise from the muse of the New England 
poet ; and well does it merit the encomiums which he 
has bestowed upon it. It is a beautiful river, from the 
time when its blue waters start on their joyous course, 
leaving "the smile of the Great Spirit" to wind through 
many a vale, and round many a hill, till they mingle 
" With ocean's dark, eternal tide." 

I have said that I have seen but few rivers. No ! 
never have I stood 

" Where Hudson rolls his lordly flood ; 
Seen sunrise rest, and sunset fade 
Along- his frowning- palisade ; 
Looked down the Appalachian peak 
On Juniata's silver streak ; 
Or seen, along his valley gleam, 
The Mohawk's softly winding stream ; 
The setting sun, his axle red 
Quench darkly in Potomac's bed ; 
And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner 
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna ; " — 

but I Still imagine that all their beauties are concen- 
trated in the blue waters of the Merrimac — not as it 
appears here, where almost beneath my factory win- 



216 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

dow, its broad tide moves peacefully along ; but where 
by "Salisbury's beach of shining sand" it rolls amidst 
far lovelier scenes, and with more rapid flow. Perhaps 
it is because it is my river tJiat I think it is so beautiful 
— no matter if it is ; there is a great source of gratifi- 
cation in the feeling that whatever is in any way 
connected with our humble selves, is on that account 
invested with some distinctive charm, and in some 
mysterious way rendered peculiarly lovely. 

But even to the stranger's eye, if he have any taste 
for the beautiful in Nature, the charms of the banks 
of the Merrimac would not be disregarded. Can there 
be a more beautiful bend in a river, than that which it 
makes at Salisbury Point 7 It is one of the most pic- 
turesque scenes, at all events, which I have ever wit- 
nessed. Stand for a moment upon the draw-bridge 
which spans, with its single arch, the spot where " the 
winding Powow" joins his sparkling waters with the 
broad tide of the receiving river. We will suppose it 
is a summer morning. The thin white mist from the 
Atlantic, which the night-spirit has thrown, like a 
bridal veil, over the vale and river, is gently lifted by 
Aurora, and the unshrouded waters blush ''celestial, 
rosy red," at the exposure of their own loveliness. 
But the bright flush is soon gone, and as the sun rides 
higher in the heavens, the millions of little wavelets 
don their diamond crowns, and rise, and sink, and 
leap, and dance rejoicingly together ; and while their 
sparkling brilliancy arrests the eye, their murmurs of 
dehght are no less grateful to the ear. The grove upon 
the Newbury side is already vocal with the morning 
anthems of the feathered choir, and from the maple, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 217 

oak and pine is rising one glad peal of melody. The 
slight fragrance of the kalmia, or American laurel, 
which flourishes here in much profusion, is borne upon 
the morning breeze ; and when their roseate umbels 
are opened to the sun, they '' sing to the eye," as their 
less stationary companions have done to the ear. 

The road which accompanies the river in its beau- 
teous curve, is soon alive with the active laborers of 
"Salisbury shore; " and soon the loud '' Heave-ho ! " 
of the ship-builders is mingled with the n\ore melliflu- 
ous tones which have preceded them. The other busy 
inhabitants are soon threading the Avinding street, and 
as they glance upon their bright and beauteous river, 
their breasts swell with emotions of pleasure, though 
in their constant and active bustle they may seldom 
pause to analyze the cause. The single sail of the 
sloop which has lain so listless at the little wharf, and 
the double one of the schooner which is about to traverse 
its way to the ocean, are unfurled to the morning wind, 
and the loud orders of the bustling skipper, and the 
noisy echoes of his bustling men, are borne upon the 
dewy breeze, and echoed from the Newbury slopes. 
Soon they are riding upon the bright waters, and the 
little skiff" or wherry is also seen darting about, amidst 
the rolling diamonds, while here and there a heavy 
laden "gundelow" moves slowly along, ''with sure 
and steady aim," as though it disdained the pastime 
of its livelier neighbors. 

. Such is many a morning scene on the banks of the 
Merrimac ; and not less delightful are those of the 
evening. Perhaps the sunset has passed. The last 
golden tint has faded from the river, and its waveless 
19 



218 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

surface reflects the deep blue of heaven, and sends 
back undimmed the first faint ray of the evening star. 
The rising tide creeps ripphng up the narrow beach, 
sending along its foremost swell, which, in a sort of 
drowsy play, leaps forward, and then sinks gently 
back upon its successors. Now the tide is up — the 
trees upon the wooded banks of Newbury, and the 
sandy hills upon the Amesbury side, are pencilled with 
minutest accuracy in the clear waters. Farther down, 
the dwellings at the Ferry, and those of the Point, 
which stand upon the banks, are also mirrored in the 
deep stream. You might almost fancy that beneath 
its lucid tide there was a duplicate village, so distinct 
is every shadow. As, one by one, the lights appear in 
the cottage windows, their reflected fires shoot up from 
the depths of the Merrimac. 

But the waters shine with brighter radiance as even- 
ing lengthens ; for Luna grows more lavish of her 
silvery beams as the crimson tints of her brighter rival 
die in the western sky. The shore is still and motion- 
less, save where a pair of happy lovers steal slowly 
along the shadowed walk which leads to Pleasant Yal- 
ley. The old weather-worn ship at the Point, which 
has all day long resounded with the clatter of mischie- 
vous boys, is now wrapped in silence. The new one 
in the ship-yard, which has also been dinning with 
the maul and hammer, is equally quiet. But from the 
broad surface of the stream there comes the song, the 
shout, and the ringing laugh of the light-hearted. 
They come from the boats which dot the water, and 
are filled with the young and gay. Some have just 
shot from the little wharf, and others have been for 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 219 

hours upon the river. What they have been doing, and 
where they have been, I do not precisely know ; but, 
from the boughs which have been broken from some- 
body's trees, and the large clusters of laurel which the 
ladies bear, I think I can ''guess." 

But it grows late. The lights which have glowed 
in the reflected buildings have one by one been quench- 
ed, and still those light barks remain upon the river. 
And that large "gundelow," which came down the 
Powow, from the Mills, with its freight of " factory 
girls," sends forth "the sound of music and dancing." 
We will leave them — for it is possible that they will 
linger till after midnight, and we have staid quite long 
enough to obtain an evening's glimpse of the Merri- 
mac. 

Such are some of the scenes on the river, and many 
are also the pleasant spots upon its banks. Beautiful 
walks and snug little nooks are not unfrequent ; and 
there are bright green sheltered coves, like Pleasant 
Valley, where "all save the spirit of man is divine." 

I remember the first steamboat which ever came 
hissing and pufling and groaning and sputtering up the 
calm surface of the Merrimac. I remember also the 
lovely moonlight evening when I watched her return 
from Haverhill, and when every wave and rock and 
tree were lying bathed in a flood of silvery radiance. 
I shall not soon forget her noisy approach, so strongly 
contrasted with the stillness around, nor the long, loud, 
ringing cheers which hailed her arrival and accom- 
panied her departure. I noted every movement, as 
she hissed and splashed among the bright waters, until 
she reached the curve in the river, and then was lost 



220 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

to view, excepting the thick sparks which rose above 
the ghstening fohage of the wooded banks. 

I remember also the first time I ever saw the abori- 
gines of our country. They were Penobscots, and 
then, I beUeve, upon their way to this city.* They en- 
camped among the woods of the Newbury shore, and 
crossed the river (there about a mile in width) in their 
little canoes, whenever they wished to beg or trade. 
They sadly refuted the romantic ideas which I had 
formed from the descriptions of Cooper and others ; 
nevertheless they were to me an interesting people. 
They appeared so strange, with their birch-bark canoes 
and wooden paddles, their women with men's hats 
and such outre dresses, their little boys with their un- 
failing bows and arrows, and the little feet which they 
all had. -■ Their curious, bright-stained baskets, too, 
which they sold or gave away. I have one of them 
now, but it has lost its bright tints. It was given me 
in return for a slight favor. I remember also one 
dreadful stormy night while they were amongst us. 
The rain poured in torrents. The thick darkness was 
unrelieved by a single lightning-flash, and the hoarse 
murmurs of the seething river was the only noise 
which could be distinguished from the pitiless storm. 
I thought of my new acquaintance, and looked out in 
the direction of their camp. I could see at one time 
the lights flickering among the thick trees, and darting 
rapidly to and fro behind them, and then all would be 
unbroken gloom. Sometimes I fancied I could distin- 
guish a whoop or yell, and then I heard nought but 
the pelting of the rain. As I gazed on the wild scene, 

* Lowell, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 221 

I was Strongly reminded of scenes which are described 
in old border tales, of wild banditti, and night revels of 
lawless hordes of barbarians. 

These are summer scenes; and in winter there is 
nothing particularly beautiful in the icy robe with 
which the Merrimac often enrobes its chilled waters. 
But the breaking up of the ice is an event of much 
interest. 

As spring approaches, and the weather becomes 
milder, the river, which has been a thoroughfare for 
loaded teams and lighter sleighs, is gradually shunned, 
even by the daring skater. Little pools of bluish water, 
which the sun has melted, stand in slight hollows, dis- 
tinctly contrasted with the clear dark ice in the middle of 
the stream, or the flaky snow-crust near the shore. At 
length a loud crack is heard, like the report of a cannon 
— then another and another — and finally the loosened 
mass begins to move towards the ocean. The motion at 
first is almost imperceptible, but it gradually increases 
in velocity, as the impetus of the descending ice above 
propels it along ; and soon the dark blue waters are 
seen between the huge chasms of the parting ice. By 
and by, the avalanches come drifting down, tumbling, 
crashing, and whirling along, with the foaming waves 
boiling up wherever they can find a crevice; and 
trunks of trees, fragments of buildings, and ruins of 
bridges, are driven along with the tumultuous mass. 
A single night will sometimes clear the river of the 
main portion of the ice, and then the darkly-tinted 
waters will roll rapidly on, as though wildly rejoicing 
at their deliverance from bondage. But for some time 
the white cakes, or rather ice-islands, will be seen 
19-^ 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

floating along, though hourly dimmishing in size, and 
becoming more ''like angels' visits." 

But there is another glad scene occasionally upon 
the Merrimac — and that is, when there is a launching. 
I have already alluded to the ship-builders, and they 
form quite a proportion of the inhabitants of the shore. 
And now, by the way, I cannot omit a passing compli- 
ment to the inhabitants of this same shore. It is sel- 
dom that so correct, intelligent, contented, and truly 
comfortable a class of people is to be found, as in this 
pretty hamlet. Pretty it most certainly is — for nearly 
all the houses are neatly painted, and some of them 
indicate much taste in the owners. And then the 
people are so kind, good, and industrious. A Newbury- 
port Editor once said of them, "They are nice folks 
there on Salisbury shore; they always pay for their 
newspapers" — a trait of excellence which printers 
can usually appreciate. 

But now to the ships, whose building I have often 
watched with interest, from the day when the long 
keel was laid till it was launched into the river. This 
is a scene which is likewise calculated to inspire salu- 
tary reflections, from the comparison which is often 
instituted between ourselves and a wave-tossed bark. 
How often is the commencement of active life com- 
pared to the launching of a ship ; and even the un- 
imaginative Puritans could sing, 

"Life 's like a ship in constant motion, 
Sometimes high, and sometimes low, 
Where every man must plough the ocean, 
Whatsoever winds may blow." 

The striking analogy has been more beautifully ex- 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 223 

pressed by better poets, though hardly with more of 
force. And if we are hke wind-tossed vessels on a 
stormy sea, then the gradual formation of our minds 
may be compared to the building of a ship. And it 
was this thought which often attracted my notice to the 
labors of the ship-wright. 

First, the long keel is laid — then the huge ribs go 
up^the sides — then the rail- way runs around the top. 
Then commences the boarding, or timbering of the 
sides ; and for weeks, or months, the builder's maul is 
heard, as he pounds in the huge trunnels which fasten 
all together. Then there is the finishing inside, and 
the'painting outside, and, after all, the launching. 

The first that I ever saw was a large and noble ship. 
It had been long in building, and I had watched its 
progression with much interest. The morning it was 
to be launched I played truant to witness the scene. 
It was a fine, sun-shiny day, September 2J, 1832 ; and 
I almost wished I was a boy, that I might join the 
throng upon the deck, who were determined upon a 
ride. The blocks which supported the ship, were sev- 
erally knocked out, until it rested upon but one. When 
that was gone, the ship would rest upon greased 
planks, which descended to the water. It must have 
been a thrilling moment to the man who lay upon his 
back, beneath the huge vessel, when he knocked away 
the last prop. But it was done, and swiftly it glided 
along the planks, then plunged into the river, with an 
impetus which sank her almost to her deck, and carried 
her nearly to the middle of the river. Then she slowly 
rose, rocked back and forth, and finally righted herself, 
and stood motionless. But while the dashing, foaming 



224 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

waters were still clamorously welcoming her to a new 
element, and the loud cheers from the deck were ring- 
ing up into the blue sky, the bottle was thrown, and 
she was named the Walter Scott. It will be remem- 
bered that this was the very day on which the Great 
Magician died — a fact noticed in the Saturday Courier 
about that time. 

Several years after this, I was attending school in a 
neighboring town. I happened one evening to take up 
a newspaper. I think it was a Portsmouth paper ; and 
I saw the statement that a fine new ship had been 
burnt at sea, called the Walter Scott. The particu- 
lars were so minutely given, as to leave no room for 
doubt that it was the beautiful vessel which I had seen 
launched upon the banks of the Merrimac. 



THE MAN OUT OF THE MOON. 

Perhaps an old nursery rhyme occurred to some of 
the individuals who witnessed the disappearance of the 
man from the moon one balmy summer evening. There 
must at least have been one astronomer, poet, lunatic, 
and a pair of lovers ; and how many more may not 
easily be ascertained. But the moonshine still came 
down so gently, and the space vacated by that ancient 
man was filled with such calm brightness, that little 
was said and no commotion caused by his withdrawal 



OF theJ sea of genius. 225 

from that place where he had been an admired fixture. 
Had he dropped down among any of the evening 
watchers doubtless there would have been a great ex- 
citement — especially among children and nurses, with 
whom this man has been an object of greater interest 
than any other class. And, as every body was once 
a boy or a girl, there might have been a revival of 
affection which would have manifested itself in waving 
of handkerchiefs, loud huzzas, and clapping of hands ; 
perhaps in ringing of bells, and firing of cannon ; and 
who knows what fine dinners might have been given 
him, and concerts, also, in which a few particular nur- 
sery rhymes might have been set to music by Vieux 
Temps, or Ole Bull, and the stranger almost paralyzed 
by the excess of joyous sensibility. But those, who 
knew that he was gone, could not of course tell wheth- 
er he had started upon a journey to the sun, or to 
Venus, or Herschel, or some other place amongst the 
stars ; and perhaps few of them dreamed that he had 
come on a pilgrimage of love to the Moon's great 
satellite, Earth. But, upon the same principle that 
" little boats should keep near shore," the inexperienced 
traveller had wisely resolved that his first voyage 
should terminate at the nearest landing-place. Whether 
those were moonstruck who first saw him 

" Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Where a fair lady, throned by the west," 

held state upon a little island — whether they were 
moonstruck or not, matters little; but certainly no 
skylark ever fluttered into its nest more unregarded, 
no eagle ever descended into its eyrie more untroubled, 
no snow-flake ever fell into its deep dingle more un- 



226 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

noticed, and no leaflet ever nestled under its shadowing 
rock more quietly, than the man from the moon came 
down, when he alighted under the broad shadow of a 
noble elm, in a ducal park. 

The deer turned upon him their large lustrous eyes, 
and darted away to their leafy coverts ; the rooks 
slowly wheeled around above his head, and sailed 
upon the breezes to their leafy homes : and the watch- 
dog met him at the portal with a fawn of affection. At 
the porter's lodge had gathered some of the juvenile 
nobility, and with the utmost courtsey they received 
unquestioned the remarkable stranger, and invited him 
to their princely home. 

" How beautiful is Earth," said the Man, as a few 
days afterwards he rambled to the spot where he had 
first pressed its soil, '' and how happy are her children. 
Before I came here I thought that peace was more com- 
mon than bliss, that quiet was more frequent than joy ; 
but hitherto I have investigated at a disadvantageous 
distance, and I here find that my ignorance is prover- 
bial. Nevertheless, I have the will and capacity to 
learn, and the duke himself shall not know more of 
his neighbors than I will ascertain." 

He bounded over the sweet-briar hedge, and wended 
his way to a little hamlet, which nestled between the 
grove and upland at a short distance. He entered the 
nearest cot, and the first sound which reached his ears 
was a cry for bread. 

" Bread — bread ! " repeated he ; ^' I saw it given to 
the dogs this morning. Bread ! — there is enough at 
the castle. Go to the duchess, my child, she will give 
you enough of bread." The child ceased her cry, but 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 227 

looked at him wonderingly, and an elderly sister shook 
her head, yet said nothing. Then the man heard a 
moan from a low pallet, and, looking into the dark re- 
cess, he saw stretched upon it the emaciated form of a 
woman. She called the girl to her side. 

" Is there not a little more wine in the phiaH " she 
asked. 

" Not one- drop," was the reply. The woman moan- 
ed more faintly. 

''Wine! wine!" repeated the Man; ''we drank 
last night at the castle until our heads ached, and some 
of the company were carried away drowned by it. 
Wine, and bread;'' he repeated, as he turned upon 
his heel, and flew toward the castle. He entered the 
drawing-room, and a servant passed him with a silver 
salver, upon which were refreshments for the ladies, 
and the sideboard was covered with various wines. 
He grasped a bottle, and, snatching the salver from 
the waiter, he turned to go. But the astonished do- 
mestic made such an outcry, and vociferated " Thief! 
Robber ! " so lustily that he was soon overtaken. The 
duke came to learn the cause of the tumult. 

" He was stealing your silver," repeated the servant, 
" after all your kindness to him." 

The duke looked at his mysterious guest with a pen- 
etrating eye. 

'' I saw a child almost within a stone's throw of 
your mansion," replied the Man, " who cried for bread. 
I saw also a woman fainting for a cordial, and here I 
knew that there was enough of bread and wine. I ran 
that they might the sooner be relieved from their 
misery." 



228 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

The duke blushed as he heard the simple reply of 
the Man, and almost doubted for the moment whether 
he himself were a man. Bread and wine were instantly 
despatched by the servant, and the duke took the 
stranger into his closet. What he told him there is 
what my readers already know — that Want and Mis- 
ery stand even within the sunshine of Plenty and 
Prosperity ; that Sickness, Pain, and Death are in the 
daily paths of the rich and powerful ; that all these 
things are looked upon as necessary evils, and not al- 
lowed for a moment to interrupt the usual course of 
business and amusement. But he could not make 
it appear to the Man out of the Moon as it did to him- 
self The more common it is, the more dreadful it 
seemed to this wanderer from another sphere. The 
more difficult it appeared to find the remedy, the more 
earnestly he thought it should be sought. It seemed 
to him that the great fault was in the government, 
and at the head of government he learned was a 
lady as young, as kind, as gentle and compassionate 
as the duke's eldest daughter. He left the castle, and 
hastened to the capitol. He lingered not by the way, 
but sights obtruded themselves upon his notice which 
gave him much pain. He sought the palace ; he asked 
audience of the queen. He had brought no references, 
no introductions, and could not be admitted to the 
young sovereign ; but his earnestness gained him an 
interview with one of her counsellors. He had so 
much to say, and knew so little how to say it, his ideas 
were all in such confusion, that it was some time be- 
fore the minister could gather aught from him. 

'' To the point," said he at length. " Tell me, stran- 
ger, what you want." 



\ OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 229 

" I want RIGHT," said the Man. " I came a stranger 
to your land, and, at first, all appeared to me very 
beautiful. But I soon found hunger, destitution, and 
death. I inquired the cause, and asked for the remedy. 
I was told there was none ; but I found that if relief 
could be obtained, this was the place to look for it. I 
left for this city. I hurried on my way ; but, unless I 
shut my eyes, I could not but see wrong. I have seen 
huge heaps of grain converted into liquid poison, and 
starving men drunk of it that they might drown all sense 
of want and misery. I have seen broad fields lie waste 
as pleasure ground, while squalid crowds were faint for 
food. I saw a mighty ship filled with brave men ; and 
their garments glittered with beauty, and gushing 
strains of music stirred their noble hearts. I thought 
it a glorious sight, but I learned that they were sent to 
kill, or be killed by their fellow-men. I saw a high 
and narrow structure spring upward to the sky ; and 
they brought out a man, and put him to death between 
the heavens and the earth. Crowds of men gazed up- 
ward at the sight, and think ye not that God looked 
down? I went into an old and moss-grown church, 
and there I saw the man who prayed at the gallows ; 
and all the people said with him, ' Be ye also merciful, 
even as your Father, in heaven is merciful.' ' For 
if ye forgive not men their trespasses, how will 
your Father, which is in heaven, forgive your trespass- 
es ? ' But the more my spirit was pained within me 
the more I hurried to this place. And when I was 
come I saw mighty palaces built for the accommoda- 
tion of a few, and I saw also men herding together in 
filth and wretchedness ; and those who had not where 
20 



230 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

to lay their heads. I have seen warehouses filled with 
cloths for raiment, and stout men passed by them with 
scarce a rag to cover them ; yet touched they nothing. 
I have seen bakeries full of bread, and storehouses 
filled with other food : and savage-looking men proved 
that they were not yet fiends, for they did not strike 
dead those who withheld from them these provisions. 
Even here I have seen dogs and horses receive the 
care and attention denied to man. You ask me what 
I want : I want to know if you have known aught of 
this ; and, if so, why stand ye here idle ? " 

" Who are you ? " rejoined the astonished courtier. 
" The Man out of the Moon." 

'^ Aha, aha — a lunatic ! I thought as much. Now 
let me see if we have not a nice place for you which 
you have not yet espied ;" and calling the servants, he 
ordered them to take the man to the hospital. 

But he slipped from their grasp, and was soon out 
of the way. He strayed along the sea-side, for there 
was there less of the misery he could not relieve. He 
found a man sitting upon a solitary rock, and gazing 
far out upon the waters. There was that in his eye 
which told the Lunarian that here he might meet with 
sympathy. So they sat together, while the sea-winds 
moaned around them, and talked of wrong and op- 
pression. 

" But why do the people bear all this ? " asked the 
Man. " Why do they not rise up in their strength, 
and demand clothing, food, and shelter? Why do they 
not stretch out their hands and take it, when almost 
within their grasp 7 Why at least do they not die as 
men, rather than live like beasts 7 " 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 231 

" They are enchanted^'' ^ was the reply of the phi- 
losopher. 

Then the Man thought how impossible it would be 
for him to disenchant them, and he sighed ; and when 
the philosopher had gone he unrobed himself, and 
spread his wings, and flew across the channel till he 
came to another land. 

We will not follow him, as he strayed through va- 
rious cities, towns, and villages, along the Mediterra- 
nean. But he heard of it everywhere — he had heard 
of it before he crossed the channel — of a happy land, 
far across many wide waters — a new world, where 
tyranny, oppression, and corruption, had not found 
time to generate their train of evils. He yearned for 
this, better land ; and one night, when the sky was 
dark with sombre clouds, and no one could witness his 
flight, he left the old for the newer continent. 

He alighted at the plantation of a wealthy gentle- 
man. With manly courtesy he was received, and en- 
tertained with a chivalrous generosity which asked no 
questions of the stranger, and knew nothing but that he 
needed rest. He was truly weary, and spent some quiet 
days in the family of his host, for whom he formed quite 
an attachment. But one day, as he was walking in 
the grounds, he heard the voice of piercing lamentation. 
He looked around, and saw a negro woman, with her 
young child pressed to her bosom, and sobbing as 
though her heart would break. He inquired the cause 
of her sorrow, and heard that her husband had just 
been taken away, to be sold to another master. Her 
children had been taken from her long before, all but 
the babe upon her breast. 



232 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

The Man could not understand this at first, but after 
long questionmg he learned some of the evils of sla- 
very. He returned to his host. He was sitting with 
his wife at his side, and his child upon his knee. He 
caressed them both with much affection. The Man 
looked at him sternly. 

" How dare you love your child ? " said he. " How 
dare you adore your wife ? when you have separated 
mother and child, husband and wife, and consigned 
them all to misery?" 

'' Who are you ? " replied the host, " that you speak 
thus in mine own house, where as yet unquestioned 
you have been honored and cherished as a stranger 
and a guest." 

'' I am the Man out of the Moon." 

Then the host laughed heartily. "Ah, moonstruck 
I see," said he, carelessly ; and touching his head, he 
nodded to his wife. After this they would neither of 
them heed what he said, but treated him good humor- 
edly, as a maniac. 

In the neighborhood, however, he met not with this 
consideration, for he would not hold his peace while he 
believed a great wrong was calling for redress. They 
called him an Abolitionist, and proposed assisting him 
in his departure from a place which did hot seem to 
suit him very well. They would provide feathers, if not 
wings ; and attach them to him with tar, as the best 
artificial method. They would not furnish him with a 
horse, but they found a rail, and this, with the aid of 
their own locomotive powers, would assist him greatly. 

The Man felt as though he would rather continue 
free of all such obligations, and, on the very night 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 233 

when all things were preparing for his exit, he spread 
his wings upon the darkness, and flew away. 

He had heard the negroes speak of a land to the 
north, where there were no slaves, where oppression, 
cruelty, and selfishness did not exist ; and he thought 
that must be the better land of which he had so often 
heard. He came to its far-famed city; that where 
morals, intelligence, and prosperity are more nearly 
identified than in any other. He was pleased at first, 
but soon became dissatisfied, because it fell far short of 
his ideas of social perfection. Here also were Wealth 
and Poverty — here were Misery, Selfishness, and 
Pride. He saw a wealthy lady roll along in her car- 
riage, while a feeble woman could hardly totter across 
the streets. " The carriage would have held more than 
two," said he to himself He followed the faltering 
footsteps until he came to a cellar. The woman ap- 
proached a bed, upon which two children were gasp- 
ing for breath. 

'' Can nothing be done for them ? " asked the Man. 

" I have just called a physician," replied the mother. 
In a few moments he came in. He looked tenderly at 
his little patients. "They are dying of want," said 
he. " They want every thing they should now have ; 
but first of all, is the want of fresh air." The Man 
started from the house and ran to a street, in which 
was the residence of an eminent philanthropist. His 
questionings had already led him to a knowledge of 
the good. He came to the house. The master was 
not at home — he had gone to his country-seat, and his 
mansion was vacant, with the exception of one servant 
who was left to open the windows each day ; and see 
20* 



234 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

that the cool air breathed through the deserted rooms. 
And, as he looked at the lofty, well-ventilated and va- 
cant apartments, he thought of the children who were 
dying in a neighboring cellar for want of air. 

The Man was wearied, disappointed, and vexed. 
"If this is the happiest spot on Earth," said he, " then 
let me go back to the Moon." 

It was a lovely starlight night. The moon, like a 
silver crescent, hung afar in the blue ether, and there 
was one bright solitary cloud in the clear sky. The 
Man spread his wings, and, bidding farewell to Earth, 
he turned his face upward to a better home. As he 
passed the bright cloud, he thought he saw, faintly de- 
lineated as though in bright shadow, the outlines of a 
human form. He approached nearer, and the cloud 
seemed like a light couch upon which an etherealized 
being reclined. Lofty intellect and childlike mildness 
were blended in his spiritual countenance, but there 
was a glance of sorrow in his deep eyes which told that, 
if an angel, he had not forgotten the trials of earth. 

The Man said to him, " I have just left Earth for 
the Moon, but I would gladly leave it for any other 
world. You seem to have returned to it from Heaven." 

"It was my home," replied the spirit. "There I 
first received existence ; there I first drew the breath 
of life. It was my first home ; and, though I know 
it is full of sin and sorrow, yet at times 1 leave Heaven 
that I may view it once again." 

" And did you know, while there, that it was filled 
with Guilt, Ignorance, and Pain ? or did you neglect 
the great interests of Humanity for selfish pleasure? " 

"I did not live for myself alone. I endeavored to 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 235 

live for my kind, and to find my happiness in striving 
to promote the well-being of others. I see now that I 
might have done more, if I saw it not then. God had 
given me a feeble frame, and I might not go forth ac- 
tively among my brethren. But I sent my voice 
among them. I spoke aloud in behalf of the wronged 
and downtrodden. I spoke not of one evil, but of that 
which is the source of all evil. I spoke to the young, 
knowing that they would soon be the middle-aged to 
act, and then the aged to die. I sent my voice among 
the ignorant, and invited them to come to the tree of 
knowledge. And my bliss is now m the assurance I 
have received, that my words will not all be forgot- 
ten." 

" But, if you were doing good," said the Man, 
sternly, " why did you go thence ? " 

" I was called," replied the spirit, gently. 

" And is there any one who may take your place ? " 

'' I hope and believe there are many noble spirits, 
who are as earnest, as able, as faithful, and more ac- 
tive, who are laboring for their brother men. But there 
is also another agent. Would you witness it ? " and, 
drawing aside a drapery of cloud, he disclosed a shin- 
ing volume. The night breeze gently wafted its leaves, 
and, in letters of brightness, were written upon them 
such words as these : 

" God hath made of one blood all nations of the 
earth." " Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." 
*' The laborer is worthy of his hire." " All things 
whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do 
ye even so to them." " With what measure ye mete, 
it shall be measured to 3^ou again." 



236 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

The Man glanced at them, and then said, " Is this 
book there? " 

^' It is there," repUed the spirit, " and there it will 
remain until its words are embroidered upon the hems 
of their garments, engraved upon the bells of their 
horses, and bound as frontlets between their eyes. 
Yea, even until they are impressed upon the hearts 
of all men." 

The spirit veiled the book again in the aerial drapery, 
and disappeared himself in the bright cloud. 

The Man turned away, with a spirit less sad ; and, 
ere morning dawned, he looked down again from his 
'' old accustomed place," with his usual placid smile ; 
and none would now know from his benignant expres- 
sion, that we, poor erring mortals, had ever grieved 
and angered the Man in the Moon. 



THE WINDOW DARKENED. 

I HAD a lovely view from my window, but it was not 
of a level landscape, nor a group of towering hills ; it 
was neither city nor country exclusively, but a combi- 
nation of both. I looked from the central street of a 
city across a narrow strip of vacant land, divided by a 
quiet stream, to a slope, covered with the residences of 
those who prefer the comparative stillness of the suburb 
to the bustle of the heart of a city. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 237 

It was like a beautiful picture — that glittering pan- 
orama — when the sunshine flashed back from the 
whitened dwellings, as they rose one above another 
upon the green amphitheatre — the mansions more dis- 
tinct and more splendid as they approached the sum- 
mit of the hill, and but two or three magnificent dwel- 
lings graced like a radiant crown its verdant brow. 
Yes, it was beautiful [in the glorious sunlight, when 
countless windows flashed forth a diamond radiance, 
but just as lovely, though more subdued in the influ- 
ence of its charms, in the gray twilight, or at eve, or 
moonlit night. 

I have watched the footsteps of Night, as she crept 
slowly up the hill, her dark shadow falling before 
her, until the roof-tree of the highest mansion lay hid 
beneath her shroud. And then the moon, like a 
gentle conqueror, stole placidly above the brightening 
horizon, and Night awoke to smiles and peace. She 
lifted her shroud from the fair earth, and a gentle day 
had dawned upon the world. Another day — yes, for 
that was no time to sleep — it was no night — while 
so soft, so exquisite a brilliance bathed that congrega- 
ted mass of life and beauty. 

My window ! — it was my only constant companion. 
It told me of sunshine and of storm ; it heralded the 
morn, and warned me of the waning light of day. It 
gave me, gratis, a ticket to that picture gallery, where 
my eye wandered on an involuntary, though oft-re- 
peated, tour of pleasure. 

My window ! — it has taught me much in quiet 
pantomime ; and its lessons did not weary, for they 
were ever varying, and ever new. 



238 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

My window ! — it gave me light for constant occu- 
pations — it gave me daily bread with the pleasure 
and instruction which it afforded me, and my loindow 
ivas to be darkened. 

I have alluded to the narrow waste beyond the 
stream. My window told me that there was to be laid 
the foundation of a mighty structure. It was a sad 
tale to hear, but, as if to make amends, my window 
each day exhibited an active, bustling and novel scene, 
such as it had not shown me before. There were 
shouting crowds of men, digging deep the trenches for 
the foundation stones, and boats came up the monoto- 
nous stream with the solid granite for their freight. 
This continued so long that I almost wearied of my 
window's show; yet its sameness was sometimes va- 
ried. Once a heavily laden wagon rolled backward 
into a newly excavated pit. I witnessed the struggles 
of the noble horses as they strove to resist the impetus 
which the vehicle gathered while descending the slope, 
and when that was gone there was a moment of fren- 
zied strength as they endeavored to scramble from the 
crumbling earth, while their despairing eftbrts but 
hastened their destruction. I held my breath as they 
hung for a moment between life and death, and then 
they were gone. True, they were but beasts ; but life 
was now extinct with those who had enjoyed it, while 
I knew of those who but bore it patiently, as a burden 
of which Death might kindly relieve them. But the 
horses — there was a useless running and shouting 
when they fell — crowds gathered around the pit, and 
gazed for awhile into its depths — then, if I rightly 
understood my window, spades were brought, and it 
was made a grave. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 239 

Such were the incidents which varied the monotony 
of my window scene, but after a time this was over, 
and the walls were commenced. Now boats came up 
the stream laden with brick, and huge red piles arose 
upon its banks. The red walls arose — red^ the color 
of the conqueror — and they proclaimed a victory over 
my pleasures. With one story of the great fabric was 
screened from me whole streets of pleasant dwellings. 
The early sunrise was gone — the blush of morn — 
those brilliant clouds, the orphans of departed Night, 
and happy wards of coming day. The first soft glance 
of moonlight was forever hid, and it seemed as though 
my best treasures were taken from me. But I clung 
more fervently to those which were left, and the more 
tenaciously as I saw them departing. This beautiful 
dwelling, and that majestic tree, were never to me so 
lovely as when they were shut from my window's 
view. Then I began to measure with my eye the 
scene, and to calculate how long I should retain this 
or that beauty, and what might remain at the last. 
The church spire — that I should always have — and 
those highest houses, and the brow of the hill. But 
no ! I had not calculated wisely. They began to recede 
from me — for the huge building rose still higher and 
higher. Men walked around the scaffoldings, as of old 
they patrolled the ramparts of some giant castle, and at 
night the unfinished walls, relieved against the dark 
sky, might well remind a reader of romance of the de- 
scriptions of ancient chateaux, with their high massive 
turreted walls. 

Higher, higher still, arose the fabric. The mansions 
were gone — the church — the brow of the hill — and 



^40 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

at last the very tip of the spire was taken from me. 
Oh ! how was my window darkened ! — but not quite 
dark, for there still was light from the skies above. 

And thus, methought, it is in life. We look, with 
the eye of youth, through Hope's magical window, 
upon a fair world. Earth lies like a glorious panorama 
before us. Our own path leads on at first like the 
crowded street, amidst the hum of business, but it soon 
stretches forward to the place where lie combined the 
pleasures and leisure of the country. Yes, our antici- 
pated life seems like that brilliant amphitheatre, 
crowded and exciting at first, but more quiet, more 
imposing and beautiful, as we look onward. The 
minor details of the scenery are not carefully scanned. 
We look not at the narrow dusty paths through which 
we must go, nor at the stones against which we may 
often dash our feet, nor the intruders who will dispute 
our way. We consider not that we may falter, or faint, 
or fall ; and there is always at the top of the hill some 
mansion which is to us the temple of riches, fame and 
pleasure. But while we look upon the scene, it sinks 
from our view. The stern realities of life rise before 
us like the brick-built wall, and we see the prose where 
we have before but witnessed the poetry of this world's 
scenes. 

We know that some of our pleasures are passing 
away — that our window is darkening — but we think 
that the tallest trees, the highest mansions, the summit 
of the hill, will yet be left. But sterner and higher 
still arises the wall before us. One hope after another 
is gone — one pleasure after another has been taken 
away — one image after another, that has been beauti- 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 241 

ful to our eye, and dear to our heart, has forever dis- 
appeared. The church-spire, with its heaven-pointing 
finger, symboHcal of the outward ordinances of rehgion, 
leaves us last. But finally it has been taken, and we 
must turn to whatever temple we may have prepared 
within. 

How has the scene changed ! How is our window 
darkened ! Yet we grope not in utter darkness, for 
there still is light from the heavens above. We are 
subdued — with hearts rightly attuned not miserable. 
We look forward less, but upward more. We are more 
peaceful, if less joyful; and we transfer the bright 
pictures, which the window has Daguerreotyped upon 
our memories, to another and more enduring world. 
We think that had the wall been still higher — had it 
encircled us yet more closely, there would still have 
been Hght above; and, unless Heaven itself is shut 
from our view, there will be bright starbeams, and 
calm moonlight, and blessed sunshine, coming down, 
and struggling towards us through the darkened win- 
dow. 



21 



POETICAL PIECES. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO THE COMET. 

IN IMITATION OF BURNS. 

[This poem was written upon the appearance of the comet of April, 1843. 
An allusion is made in the fifteenth verse to the cold weather which 
accompanied it. The idea in the eleventh verse, was suggested by the 
remembrance of the comet which became entangled with Jupiter's moons, 
and which was decidedly worsted in the rencounter.] 

Weel, Stranger ! fain I 'd hae ye tell 
Some sort o' tale about yoursel ; 
I dinna like ye very well ; 

But mair if I should ken 
About your journeyins far an near, 
An what may be your business here, 

My manners it might men. 

We, Yankees, are the anes to spier 
What ye hae done this mony a year ; 
Will ye not tell us, plain and clear, 

Where ye sae long hae been ? 
Whether ye e'er before were here, 
An where ye next inten to steer. 

An if ye Ml come agen ? 



244 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

~ I told ye ance I liked ye not ; 

I ne'er hae kenned o' good ye 've wrought 

A racin here an there ; 
On you we ne'er can keep an eye, 
Ye roun' creation feckless fly, 
A spinnin street-yarn i' the sky ; 

I think ye like the air. 



While far your trail sae braw ye spread, 
Ye've wit eneugh to hide your head ; 

Ye 've but a peacock's glory ; 
I'm sure ye hae na ony brains. 
An ye can hae but little gains ; 
A rollin stane na moss retains, 

Sae saith the guid auld story. 



I 'm sure I wish ye 'd men your ways ; 
I 'd gladly gie ye mickle praise. 

For ance o' guid behavin ; 
Thae ither planets, stars, and things — 
O' which the poet aften sings. 
Sic joy to mony a body brings, 

While ye but set folk ravin. 



They come to cheer the darksome night. 
An o'er us shed their constant light. 

While roun' an roun' ye 're rinnin ; 
On them, as on some douce gude book. 
The chartless mariner may look ; 
Their courses they hae ne'er forsook, 

An keep a steady spinnin. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 245 

Ye 'd better far, than gae away, 
Now in our universe to stay, 

An be a sober planet ; 
Just draw your trail up i' a heap ; 
Like dormice when they gae to sleep ; 
Yet look ye weel afore ye leap, 

Sic change, ye might not stan it. 

Yet a' our Washin'tonians tell. 
That reformation suits them well ; 
Some o' them here cut quite a swell. 

Who ance were waur than ye ; 
Went rantin roun', a scarin a'. 
The auld an young, the great and sma'. 

Who i' their way might be. 

An ye now come unto our warl. 
Like that auld guid-for-nothin carl. 
Who fain wad into ruin hurl, 

Lang syne, auld patient Job ; 
As though he 'd not enough o' strife, 
Wi' half-score bairns to vex his life. 
And then a wise advisin wife 

As ony on the globe. 

Fu' soon I ken ye '11 gae away, 
Tho' Miller folk wad hae ye stay ; 

They think ye '11 list their prayer. 
An say your trail ye '11 o'er us splash, 
An gie us a' an awsome crash ; 
The warl itsel will gae to smash ; 

Ah, do it ! gin ye dare. 
21* 



246 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

An yet, if, as sae mony say. 

Ye hit the earth, some night or day. 

It wad na make me sad ; 
This warl gaes steady as a clock, 
She wad na min your feckly shock. 
An ye wad get an awfu' knock. 

An hurt ye very bad. 

Daft Miller thinks ye 're but his tool ; 
He '11 fin himsel an April fule, 

When ye shall gae away, 
And gie us na that mighty toss. 
Which a' the saunts will sen' across 
Death's dreaded, deep, uncannie fosse, 

In glorious array. 

They '11 waesome be when ye shall fail 
To spairge 'em wi' your mighty trail. 
E'en like a flitterin' harpooned whale, 

An heeze them i' the air ; 
Gin ye wad gie them sic a ride, 
While they amang the clouds did bide, 
Pray, what the lave wad then betide .'' 

Ye 'd send us sinners — where ? 

I hae na fears o' my salvation ; 
I 'd sign ye na' a supplication, 
Tho' lang 's an Anti-Slave petition. 

Ye 'd fling it " 'neath the table ; " 
I think to do some awsome thing. 
That on us a' wad ruin bring. 
An ither tune wad make me sing, 

Ye 're willin mair than able. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 247 

Ye 're workin a' your mischief now, 
Ye bring the cauld an wind 1 trow, 

The spring time's driftin' snaw, 
The cynic's words to ye I '11 tell, 
Wha, lang syne, i' a tub did dwell. 
An said to ane, some like yoursel, 

" Out o' my sunshine, gae ! " 

Awa ! begone ! an when afar, 
Ayont the very farthest star. 

Ye fin ye 're a' but froze, 
Ye '11 do agen, as now ye 've done, 
Come drivin back toward the sun, 
Tho' wise men say (the claivers run) 

He 's cauld as pussy's nose. 



Thae learned men — I think they 're daft, j 

Wi' a' their books and scholar craft, i 

They seem to me as unco saft, j 

When puir folk they disturb ; 

As tho' a body should not live i 

Unless he know the adjective, j 

The plural, an the verb. 

Suith ! get ye gone ! an we will screel, ■ 

As loud 's we can, a last fareweel, j 

Your exit when we view it ; 
An yet, gude sake, 't is very true 
That ye are blythe, an bonnie too, 
I '11 gie a comet e'en his due, ' 

Or ane day I may rue it. , 



248 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



THE MOUSE'S VISIT. 

Lines written, impromptu, as the incident occurred. Perhaps the Scottish 
rhythm was suggested hy the remembrance of Burns's address to a 
mouse. 

I JisT had frae the snaw-storm came, 
An sat me cow'rin down at hame, 
For I was crabbit, dour, an' lame, 

An' thought to rest me then ; 
When, looking up, what should I view ? 
A mouse jumpt i' my overshoe. 
Nor stayed to say, " Ma'am, how d'ye do .? " 

When back he skipt again. 

It seemed e'en like some passing thought, 
Sae swift he forth an' backward hopt ; 
Sure, I 'd hae thought he might hae stopt 

To say, " Aweel," " Good day ; " 
But na, I 'm sure it was na me 
The wee bit thing had come to see, 

He thought me far away. 

Quick to the chimla I did hie. 
Thinking his lurking place to spy ; 
I glinted, but, if I should die. 

Could see na whence he came ; 
The poker then I poked away, 
The wood an' rug did backward lay, 

An' served the tongs the same. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 948 

Save ane wee hole, i' the hearth-stone, 
A crack or crevice was there none ; 
The mouse a bogle's feat hae done, 

If he hae come frae thence ; 
My thimble it would na admit, 
My thumb the place would taughtly fit ; 
I think he must hae squeezed a bit. 

An' hath mair wit than serfte. 

Wee simple fule ! why came ye here ? 
Were ye sae cauld an' dark an' drear, 
That ye maun try some better cheer 

'Mangst ither folk to find ? 
My air-tight stove — ye 're welcome there ; 
Its warmth an' light ye ance may share ; 
Say, how d'ye like its with'ring glare ? 

To burn ye I've a mind. 

Ye weel might flee wi' mickle dread 
Sic murderous plots came i' my head. 
As how I 'd get a piece o' bread, 

Or, better far, o' cheese. 
An' put it i' some cannie trap 
That, when ye came again, would slap, 
An', fallin', gie ye sic a rap 

Ye ne'er again would freeze. 

I '11 do it na — 'gainst ye to war 
Were too contemptible by far ; 
I ne'er will Pussy's honors share. 

An' ye maun stay in quiet ; 
But, Mousie, mip ye ever this, 
I 'm ane they ca' an Editress, 
An' it would cause me much distress 

To raize me, an' to riot. 



250 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

An', should ye stay, I trust that ye 
Will be content to live, like me, 
1' cheerfu' calm celibacy : 

An' when I 'm gane a weavin, 
I'm willin' ye should loup an' prance, 
An', o'er my floor, your hornpipe dance. 

Gin it wad save some grievin.' 

But, should ye bring a partner here 

To scrievin round, an' squeak — O dear! 

Ye weel might tremble wi' sic fear 

As ne'er hae yet possessed ye ; 
For I wad make a fearfu' rout. 
Ye baith should hop an' skip about, 
Sic help ye 'd hae in getting out 

As never yet hae blessed ye. 

I '11 raible na, nor get sae warm ; 
Ye ne'er hae done me ony harm, 

That I hae ever kenned ; 
'Tis true some books hae flawn away. 
Some magazines hae gane astray ; 
The blame on ye I canna lay — 

If guilty ye maun mend. 

An' if foul arts I 'd 'gainst ye try 
I 'd come aft* " second best " — for I 

Ne'er was ca'd douce — alack ! 
I ne'er gained praise for being sly. 
That I am *' green" they aften cry. 
An' I to them can but reply. 

Better be green than Black. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 251 

Now, ere I cease, I'll e'en undo 

The wrangs o' which some lines are fou ; 

My ingle ye may share : — 
Ye ne'er hae scared away a thought 
Sae gude as these in sang I 've wrought, 
A blessing ance ye sure hae brought, 

For verse wi' me is rare. 

An', had ye na, sure ane sae weak 
Ne'er mickle harm on me could wreak ; 
I never ance hae heard ye squeak, 

An' need na fear ye now ; 
An' there are those, who, should they choose, 
'Gainst me their powers for ill to use. 
Could work, for me, e'en more abuse 

Than I for you, I trow. 



An' let us e'er sic mercy grant ' 

As we ane day may wish an' want ; ] 

For He, whose name is Love, '\ 

Will surely bless the kindly heart, I 

That ne'er has caused anither's smart, ] 

An' gie't a place above. \ 



252 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



THE SONG OF THE SHOE. 

So many lays are sung in praise 

Of all that 's good, and right, 
That I believe mankind receive 

In praising much delight. 

If I could sing of anything 

Ne'er sung about before, 
Such rhymes I M string this morn would ring 

With loud and jovial roar. 

But every man, of every clan. 

Has more than justice had ; 
Each beast and bird has praises heard, 

Unless 'twas very bad. 

Of every^root, and flower, and shoot, 

King Solomon once sung ; 
Of Fire and Light, of Death and Night, 

Have modern praises rung. 

Why should I dream of some new theme ? 

When all assert it true — 
The infidel will even tell 

That — " there is nothing new.'''' 

Yet may not I for once just try 

My lyre to string anew ; 
For no one yet, that I e'er met. 

Has sung The Rubber Shoe. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 253 

Ah ! many a maid, who 's ne'er afraid 

Of one man, or of two, 
Would never dare to face the air, 

At eve, without this shoe. 

When summer showers wash earth and flowers, 

What can a fair girl do, 
If she 's without a thick and stout 

Elastic Rubber shoe ? 

To stay within, and knit or spin, 

When all without 's inviting. 
When rainbows glow, and fresh streams flow, 

And gems the scene are lighting. 

When hie away ! and skip ! and play ! 
Are what we all would do ; 
She M stay at home, and fear to roam, 
But for the Rubber Shoe. 

And when we hear that Spring is near, 

With skies so bright and blue. 
We always bless, from heart's recess, 

The India Rubber Shoe. 

Though poets sing of lovely Spring, 

She 's always mud or dew ; 
And we our feet could ne'er keep neat 

But for the Rubber Shoe. 

And we can go through melting snow, 

And slippery streets walk through, 
And trip so nice o'er glowing ice, 

With an India Rubber Shoe. 
21 



254 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Our grand-ma'ams sure did much endure - 
How much they scarcely knew 

Their feet they wet, and colds did get, 
For want of a Rubber Shoe. 

In days " lang syne " the sun did shine 

Upon a world of mud. 
And green trees grew, and one dove flew, 

Where no one yet had stood. 

And Noah's wife had blessed her life, 

I think, for one good view 
Of that which we so thankless see — 

An India Rubber Shoe. 

And Noah's girls had given their curls 
If Japhet, Ham, and Shem 

Could have some boots — if not sur-toutSj 
Some over-shoes for them. 

For, from the ark, a beauteous park 
This earth looked to that crew ; 

Only 't was wel, to their regret, 
And not a Rubber Shoe. 

But I must not go back a jot 

To Gentile or to Jew ; 
But close this song, which is so long, 

About the Rubber Shoe. 



OF THE SKA OF GENIUS. 



THE SEQUESTERED HARP. 

A BALLAD. 

A SWEET-TONED Harp, the artist's skill 

Had fashioned in a glen, 
Whose witching notes the soul might thrill 

Of all save soulless men. 

But such seemed they to whom was given 
That mute though precious lyre ; 

All wasted were its tones of heaven. 
Its power the breast to inspire. 

For none the awakening power could bring 
Whose hand those chords had swept, 

And on each unregarded string 
The hidden music slept. 

At length unto that lovely glen 

A mighty minstrel came, 
Who, in the homes of prouder men, 

Had gained the meed of fame. 

The stranger took the Harp awhile, 
That, (with a wonted pleasure,) 

His leisure hours he might beguile. 
And tuned the strings to measure. 

Nor deemed he such a wondrous strain 
Those rude chords could imprison, 

As, when he touched the lyre again. 
Answered with notes Elysian. 



256 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

He Started at the thrilling sound, 

His casual touch awaking, 
Through grove and valley rang around. 

The glen's deep stillness breaking. 

As up into the far blue sky 
The harp-freed music sprang, 

With echoes of that melody 
The wild vale loudly rang. 

The rustics round the harper stood. 

And marvelled at his skill ; 
As strains of gay or plaintive mood 

Responded to his will. 

" Was this the Harp," they loudly cry, 
" Which we so disregarded ? 
And had this wealth of melody 

Beneath its chords been hoarded ? " 

And oft, when day's hard toil was o'er, 
And eve brought hour for leisure, 

They gathered round the harper's door. 
To list the lyre's sweet measure. 

But the minstrel tired of the lonely glen, 

And far away went he ; 
He left the Harp with those humble men. 

When he passed o'er the deep blue sea. 

Long years went by ; and when once more 
He greeted his native strand, 

The mingled dust his sandals bore 
Of many a distant land. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 257 

For he had trod the stately halls I 

Of England's youthful queen, j 

And round " auld Scotia's " mouldering walls 
His form had erst been seen ; 

And he had stood where brilliant skies i 

Bend over beauty's home, \ 

And classic temples greet the eyes ; 

Beside a Moslem dome. ' 

I 

And then he went where Afric's sun : 

Its deserts through ages has fired ; ' 

And in haunts which the love of ease would shun, 
He faltered never, nor tired. 

He went where the idolized crocodile creeps 

In the Nile's long-hallowed wave, ' 

And where the ancient Pharaohs sleep 

Within their mountain-like grave. " ' 

He had stood where, with deep, majestic flow, , 

The Euphrates rolls his tide ; j 

And where, with murmurings scarce more slow, I 

The waves of the Jordan glide. j 

And the pilgrim's foot had pressed the height, I 

To the Christian all sacred still, 1 

Though Omar's mosque, with splendor bright, I 
Now stands on Zion's hill. 

There was not a consecrated spot 

Of deserted Palestine, 
But the minstrel still unwearied sought, — 

To him 't was a sacred shrine. 

22* j 



258 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

And when he returned, 't was a theme for the songs 

Which delighted each listening ear, 
And around him were gathered admiring throngs, 



The chanted tradition to hear. \ 

And he thought not then of the harp he had left ' 

So desolate, hung on the willow, i 

Which seemed of each wakening impulse bereft, 

When he crossed o'er the rolling billow. j 

Not a thrilling note, or rapturous tone. 

Had been drawn from those harp-strings since then. 
Or aught, save a low and heart-searching moan, 

When the night breezes swept through the glen. ! 

But at length into that secluded dell 

The minstrel came gladly again, | 

And they brought him the harp he had loved so well, J 

Ere he traversed the heaving main. ' 

But one master-sweep o'er the trembling strings. 

And one glad word over them spoken ; j 

Then a paean of joy through the wild glen rings, ' 

And the wind-worn harp lies broken. , 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 259 



THJ] TASK OF DEATH. 

PART FIRST. 

Now the morning sun, on the old church tower, 

Is throwing its crimson light ; 
And a shadowy form, at that early hour, 

Is roused from the slumbers of night. 
He sitteth him down in the grave-yard dank, 

'Neath the cypress, old and tall ; 
Where the gloomy nightshade groweth rank. 

And the weeds overtop the wall. 

An aspect all ghastly and pale he wears, 

But he hath neither pulse, nor breath ; 
And the quiver of darts, that he ever bears. 

Proclaims that his name is — Death. 
Alone, seated there on the cold, damp ground, 

Amid the mementoes of woe. 
How mournfully strange is the fearful sound 

Of his muttering, wild and low. 

'T was a good day's work, and they 've dug the graves 

For the victims of yesterday ; 
How joyously now each dark yew waves, 

As in glad sympathy. 
We well may rejoice, for I have stilled 

The wailings of woes and of fears ; 
I have broken the cups that I found were filled 

With misery's bitterest tears. 



260 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

" The first that I'found on the yestermorn 

Was an aged man, and lone ; 
A wandering outcast — forsaken, forlorn. 

And shelter, and food, having none. 
Then I wrapped, with my shroud, his wasted frame, 

As my merciful hand he blessed ; 
^nd a gladsome smile o'er his features came 

When I bade him lie down to his rest. 

" And next, a sight more mournful was seen, 

A girl who was weary of life ; 
This world must ever look dark, I ween, 

To the mother, but never a wife. 
Then, as all other friends forsook, 

On me, in accents wild. 
She called ; and, in my arms, I took 

The mother, and the child. 

I saw a matron, wan, and pale, 

A vile inebriate's wife ; 
She was too gentle, and too frail, 

For Fate's relentless strife ; 
I was about to pass her by, 

But she faintly whispered Death ! 
I met her mild imploring eye, 

And then — I took her breath. 
The drunkard looked, with a stricken heart, 

On the relics of his bride ; 
He screamed — then wildly snatched my dart. 

And they laid him by her side^ 

" But I, for to-day, have another plan ; 

I will go where they wish me not. 
To the haunts of the proud, and prosperous man. 
Where " The Terror King " now is forgot. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 261 



To them it shall be a horrible day, 

And the strong shall be the weak ; 

In vain they '11 implore me to turn away, 
And obey me, with a shriek." 



PART SECOND. 

The church gleamed forth, through the golden flood 

Of morn's increasing light ; 
And the glittering spire, above it stood, 

In a sheen of glory bright. 
Now, merrily out, from that old church tower, 

Rings the chime of marriage bells ; 
Woe ! woe ! to the bride ! if the coming hour 

Her young heart with rapture swells. 

She is standing there, 'midst her bridal maids, 

A merry, and " snow-white choir," 
With the orange bloom in her shining braids, 

But quenched is her eye's bright fire. 
And ever it groweth more sadly wild 

As the bell more loudly peals ; 
And thai face, which once was so soft and mild. 

An emotion strange reveals. 

They have waited long for the wished-for smile ; 

They have checked each rising tear ; 
They have striven forebodings to beguile ; 

And have lulled each fancied fear. 
But see ! from that wild despairing eye, 

A joyous light brilliantly gleams ; 
As when, at eve, o'er the Arctic sky, 

Aurora transiently streams. 



262 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

She hath caught a glimpse of the phantom dark, 

Who intrudes on the festive hour ; 
Yet little do those around her mark 

That Death 's in the bridal bower. 
" She sees a hand, they cannot see. 

Which beckons her away ; 
She hears a voice, they cannot hear, 

Which bids her not delay." 

" O Death ! O Death ! I gladly will go, 

For thee have I waited long ; • 
Thy voice, to others oft bringing but woe. 

Is sweeter'to me than their song. 
They never have dreamed of the misery 

I had hidden within this breast ; 
They have little thought there was agony 

That could make thee a welcome guest. 
And when, by others, bade to wed, 

I felt my fate was sealed ; 
So faint was every power, and dead, 

Nought could I do but yield. 

'' Thou wonderest, Death ! but bethink thee now 

Of a fair and noble youth. 
To whom I had breathed my earliest vow, 

I had pledged my love, and truth. 
Thou hast broken the bands we secretly wove, 

Thou hast snatched him rudely away ; 
But the vows which we made are recorded above, 

And I '11 wed with him to-day. 
Yes, lay me quickly down by his side. 

His own and unperjured one ; 
For I never could be a faithful bride. 

But to theey and him alone." 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 263 

" I will go," said Death, " where there 's been no past ■ 

The joys of the present to dim ; , 
To the infant all sorrows but transiently last. 

And life ever looks brilliant to him." - 

So he went where a child, in its innocent charms, ] 

Was sporting in joyous play ; 

And he took the babe from his mother's arms, I 

To carry him far away. ] 

J 

" O Death ! O Death !• thou art foolish now ; ] 

That young boy knoweth not thee, j 

Thou hast laid thine hand on his fair white brow, I 

And it gently stilleth his glee. ; 

Thy shadow is passing over his sight, ■ 

But he thinks it the twilight hour ; i 

It darkens now, he believes it is night, \ 

And still have thy terrors no power. i 
He scarcely starteth thy voice to hear, * ' 

Believing he 's chanted to rest, 
And calmly, as thou wert his mother dear. 

He has laid him to sleep on thy breast." I 

"I will go," said Death, "where they '11 know me well. 

Nor my voice be unconsciously heard ; i 
They shall shiver, and shrink, at my merciless spell, 

And tremble with awe at my word." i 

I 
Where a mother sat, 'midst her household band, 

That Terror King must go. ^ 
" O stay, I pray thee. Death ! thine hand. 
Deal not at her a blow. 

Her cheek is blenched, but not with fear, i 

As she listens to thy command, i 



264 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

And without a sigh — without one tear, 
She takes thee now by the hand." 

" Death ! O Death ! I knew thou wouldst come, 

That thus thine entrance might be, 
I never have looked on this earth as a home, 

Or aught but a troubled sea — 
And the city, to which life's frail bark sails. 

Is Jerusalem the new ; 
And we, or with kind, or with adverse gales. 

That haven should keep in viejv. 

" Thou, thou, O Death ! art the pilot kind 

To guide the mariner home ; 
Now guided by thee, my Saviour I '11 find ; 

Jesus ! to Thee I come. 
Yet ere from the loved ones I pass away, 

I would bid them a fond farewell ; 
They know not the joys of a dying day, 

Its bliss no tongue may e'er tell. 

" My husband, weep not ! for the love of years 

May not pass with the fleeting breath ; 
We have journeyed long through this vale of tears. 

Nor divided can be by Death. 
My children, weep not ! — though the grave looks drear. 

And fearfully dark to your^ view. 
Yet to me 't is a portal, all bright and clear, 

To a mansion created anew. 

" And from thence I will watch, if permitted it be. 
O'er the ones I have cherished on earth ; 
I will mingle unseen, and noiselessly, 

With the band at my household hearth. 
But if this may not be, there 's a watchful eye, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 265 

That never can slumber, or sleep ; 
There 's a Friend, and Preserver, who 'II ever be nigh, 
My orphanM ones kindly to keep. 

" Now, Death ! I will willingly go with thee. 

For thou canst not enchain me long ; 
And to Him, who my sure Deliverer will be. 

Shall be lifted a joyful song. 
For I shall live in that terrible day 

When the skies like a scroll have fled ; 
When the very eartlk shall have passed away. 

And when even Death is dead.'''' 

" I will go," said Death, " where the Christian's hope. 
And faith, have not been known ; 
Those, whom I call, through my valley must grope 
Unguided, and alone." 

Where a young man stood, in a gorgeous hall, 

Death aimed his relentless blow ; 
He means that the joyous carnival 

Shall be changed to a scene of woe. 
Must he leave that young and beautiful bride ? 

Must he leave that princely state } 
Must he go, from this splendor and this pride. 

On thee, dread King ! to wait } 
Must his eyes be sealed to the pageant proud. 

They now are preparing for him ? 
Must his ears be closed to their plaudits loud ? 

The shout, and the choral hymn ? 

" O Death ! O Death ! thou 'rt a welcome guest. 
Though I deemed not that thou wast near, 
But I willingly lay me down on thy breast, 
23 



266 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

And thy voice I willingly hear. 
Thou kindly hast come to keep me from shame, 

From contempt, where they 'd gladly deride ; 
Thou alone canst preserve my newly won fame. 

And the love of my innocent bride. 

" Thou knowest not, Death ! of the fearful past 

Thy victim had long been concealing ; 
That at hand was the day for stern justice, at least, 

And that were too dark for revealing. 
It was life^ and not deaths which would bring a dread. 

To him, who, in youth's thoughtless prime, 
By the arts of the wicked was recklessly led 

To folly, ah yes, and to — crime. 

" The crime was concealed, but the envious now 
Are madly displacing the shroud ; 
Their efforts will cease, when they learn. Death, that thou 

The lofty one suddenly bowed. 
Now my wife shall ne'er know that a felon's lot 

She shared so unconsciously here ; 
And the wreath which, with life, from my temples had 
dropped. 
Will be evergreen over my bier." 

" I will go," said Death, " where crime and despair 
Have never as yet caused a groan ; 
To seclusion, so peaceful and happy, that there 
Nor shame, nor remorse can be known." 

To a strange old turret the tyrant went. 

Where, afar from the world's rude din. 

The life of a student was happily spent 
By the wise old man within. 

And calmly up the philosopher stood, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 267 

And welcomed the spectre grim ; 
He was ne'er to be brought to a trembling mood, 
Even Death could not terrify him. 

" O Death ! O Death ! thy form I can tell, 

Though I never have seen thee before ; 
But, in books, I have studied thee long and well. 

And I wish for their teachings no more. 
I have tired of all they call wisdom on earth, 

I have found it but vanity ; 
To but vain desires can it ever give birth. 

And from these I would gladly be free. 

" I have entered the temple of Science to find 

But its outer court open to me ; 
For it ne'er is permitted a mortal mind 

To fathom her mystery. 
Yes, knowledge, to me, has been like a cave 

In which I must enter alone ; 
In the light, which my flambeau so fitfully gave. 

Its spars, and stalactites shone — 

" There was beauty there, but it transiently beamed. 

There was splendor contrasted with gloom. 
When I grasped at the gem which most brilliantly gleamed. 

Its light would then cease to illume. 
I have striven to thread its devious ways. 

But 't was labor spent vainly by me. 
They have never proved aught but a labyrinth maze, 

My reward but perplexity. 

"I found myself mocked, when some inner retreat 
I thought my hard labors had crowned. 
With beauty undimmed, and with riches replete ; 
'T was beyond an impassable bound. 



268 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Life now is, to me, but a wearisome coil. 

Its fetters a festering chain, 
Its labors are each but a thankless toil. 

Its pleasures are empty and vain. 

" I have stood, like a boy, on the wave-beaten shore 

Of a broad and boundless sea ; * 
There were treasures untold in the vast depths before, 

But the stones on the strand were for me. 
I would fain overleap those barrier waves. 

And descend to the regions below ; 
Of its coralline groves, and gem-brightened caves. 

Of its beauty, and wealth, would I know. 

" Yes, Death, I will go — for I 've heard them speak 

Of a world that is better than this ; 
The faith they believed, I derided as weak, 

To know it were true would be bliss. 
I gladly would drink at the fountain where 

The taster shall thirst ne'er again ; 
Can the soul's deep yearnings be satisfied there } 

O Death, have they hoped it in vain ? 
But the question, pondered most long and deep, 

Shall be solved o'er breathless clay. 
If we- lie down to an endless sleep, 

Or wake to eternal day." 

PART THIRD. 

Now the evening sun, on the old church tower, 

Is throwing a halo bright ; 
And its slender spire, in that radiant hour, 

Stands up like a spear of light, 

* " I seem to myself like a boy picking up pebbles upon the shore, while 
the vast ocean of knowledge lies undiscovered before me," — Sir Isaac 
Newton. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 269 

While out from the tower the clear solemn sounds i 

Of the vesper bell pealeth aloud, j 

A dark form flits o'er the new-made mounds, •] 

Like the shade of a passing cloud. I 

I 

He sitteth him down in the grave-yard dank, i 

'Neath the cypress old and tall ; i 

Where the gloomy nightshade groweth rank, ' "] 

And the weeds overtop the wall. '| 
While seated there, on the cold damp ground. 

He muttereth deep and low ; ''[ 

That strange wild voice breathed a fearful sound, \ 

Like wail when night breezes blow. ! 

" My day's work is done, and they 've dug the graves j 

For those I have taken to-day ; • 

And the dark-leaved yew now mournfully waves 'i 

O'er the buried of yesterday. \ 

A matron I took, both now, and then, ! 

A damsel I took, and a child ; \ 

■ There were young men taken, and each called when j 

Life's mid-day sun had just smiled. | 

There were old men too — but the task was in vain J 

I allotted myself for this day ; \ 

My terrors were treated by all with disdain, '• 

And they gladly went with me away. 

" There 's a Power above which the mind can bring 1 
To receive me joyfully ; 
As it pleaseth Him can I have a sting. 

Or the grave a victory. i 

I '11 accomplish the task He 's assigned to me, I 

For the work is not chosen, but given, \ 

And, henceforth, will the faithful messenger be i 

Of the Holy One of Heaven." 1 

23* J 



270 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



LAST EFFORT OF THE POETESS. 

Nay, ask not, and think not, again I may lay 

A tribute upon our shrine ; 
For the gift and the spirit of poesy, 

I now may not claim as mine. 

Yet often before me, by night and by day, 
Have visions of loveliness passed. 

Like the shadowy forms which people dreams, 
With a beauty that may not last. 



And vainly I 've prayed that the magical power i 

Might once more be given to me, j 

To picture them forth with a pencil so true, 
That others their beauty might see. 

But Oh ! there 's a sickness within my heart, 

There 's a feverish whirl in my brain ; 
And the clear, bright thoughts of earlier days, 

May never be mine again. \ 

Yet I would not heed the temple's throb, ] 

Nor the pulse's feverish thrill, • 

So that feelings and powers which once were mine, 
Might gladden my being still. 

Again I would drink at that sparkling fount, 

But its waters in vapor arise ; 
And the misty wreaths which around me curl, 

Only dim and bewilder my eyes. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. ^ 271 

And wildly invoking the forms of the past, 
They come at the sound of my breath ; 

But they stand, as the prophet of old arose, 
Arrayed in the mantle of death. 

And silently I shall depart to my rest — 

For mine 's not the swan-like power, 
To breathe forth a sweeter and lovelier lay. 

The nearer the dying hour. 

Yet haply, ere Death in his wasting career. 

His robe o'er my weakness hath cast. 
My spirit may hearken, and vividly hear 

A strain of the shadowy past. 



272 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



THE TRUE MOURNER. 

The King of Scotland, James VI., ordered his courtiers to appear at the 
palace in mourning, at the announcement of the murder of his mother, 
Mary, Queen of Scots. One nobleman came in complete armor, as the 
mourning suit best befitting this occasion. 

The deed was done ; and Scotland's Queen 

A murdered victim lay ; 
For England's minions well I ween 

Their ruthless queen obey. 

And Scotland's king sends forth his word 

That all to him repair, 
With sable weeds, to Holyrood, 

Those emblems of despair. 

A thronging host surround their king 

With mantle black and plume ; 
With sounds of woe the court-yards ring. 
The palace rests in gloom. 

But, see ! that dark-robed host among 

That mailed intruder dare ; 
Yet he, of all the sable throng, 

Was the true mourner there. 

The corselet pressed a swelling breast ; 

The casque concealed hot tears ; 
The sword, which scarcely lay at rest. 

Fit mourning badge appears. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 



273 



Thus should we grieve whene'er we see 
Our fellow-men oppressed ; 

Our sisters, " by one holy tie," 
With wrongs all unredressed ; 



Not tamely should sit down and mourn, 1 

But nerve us for the fight ; : 

Should gird our sword and armor on, ! 

And battle for the right. ' i 



274 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



"HE IS NOT HERE — HE IS RISEN." ; 

■i 

Mother! weep not o'er the new-made grave \ 

Of the child, who was taken so soon from your care, ] 

Come not again where the young willows wave, ] 

Breathe here no more the broken heart's prayer ; 

This is no place for the sigh and the tear, i 
Thine infant has risen — it lieth not here. 

I 

Father ! who prayest, as never before, j 

That strength may be given to drink of this cup ; 1 
The joy of thine age, of thy being, is o'er, 

Thy hope has been taken, but still bear thee up — 
Bend not in agony over this bier. 

Thy son has arisen — he lieth not here. | 

Sister! who seekest, in twilight and gloom, i 

The place where the loved and departed doth lay, | 

Though the form is now resting within this dark tomb, j 

And, mouldering to dust, is now the cold clay — j 

Yet, life for thy hope, and death for thy fear, j 

Thy brother has risen — he lieth not here. 

Brother ! who comest, at even-tide, , 

To mourn for the friend of thy childhood and youth, i 

The dead and the living by faith are allied, j 

And the grave is now whispering this gladdening truth, i 

" Weep not for him, who once was so dear. 

Thy friend has arisen — he lieth not here." 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 275 

Maiden ! who comest and breathest thy moan, 

Bending in agony over this dust, 
Hope for the future ! and this shall atone 

For the stroke which has shaken thy love and thy trust — 
Faith bids thee look up, where he will appear. 
For the loved one has risen — he lieth not here. 

Widow ! who gazest far over the deep, 

Shrouding the form which sank there to rest, 

'Neath the blue waves the earthly may sleep. 

But the spirit has gone to the land of the blest — 

Those waters will evermore chant to thine ear. 

Thy husband has risen — he lieth not here. 

Christian ! wherever a grave hath been made. 

On whate'er spot may a monument rise. 
In whate'er place may a corse have been laid, 

Thence there is pealing this chant to the skies, 
Loudly it soundeth, and ever more clear — 
" The spirit has risen — it cannot lie here." 



276 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



LAMENT OF THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK. 

Oh, ladies, will you listen to a little orphan's tale ? 

And pity her whose youthful voice must breathe so sad a 

wail ; 
Nor shrink so from the wretched form, obtruding on your 

view. 
As though the heart, which in it dwells, must be as loathsome 

too. 

Full well I know that mine would be a strange, repulsive 

mind. 
Were the outward form an index true of the soul within it 

shrined ; 
But though I am so all devoid of the loveliness of youth, 
Yet deem me not as destitute of its innocence and truth. 

And ever in this hideous frame, I strive to keep the light 
Of faith in God, and love to man, still shining pure and bright ; 
Though hard the task, I ofttimes find, to keep the channel 

free. 
Whence all the sweet affections flow to those who love not 

me. 

I sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee, 

I hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly ; 

But my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be 

screened. 
And the babe recoils from my embrace, as though I were a 

fiend. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 277 

I sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play; 
For a moment will my pulses fly, and I join the band so gay ; 
But they depart with hasty steps, while their lips and nostrils 

curl. 
Nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little 

crooked girl. 

But once it was not thus with me ; I was a dear-loved child ; 
A mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled ; 
No word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone. 
For I to them was very near — their cherished only one. 

But sad the change which me befell, when they were laid to 

sleep, 
Where the earth-worms, o'er their mouldering forms, their 

noisome revels keep ; 
For of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to 

care. 
And burdens on my back were laid, a child should never 

bear. 

And now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed — 
For first upon me came disease — and deformity ensued : 
Woe ! woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stage, 
Could be redeemed from the bended form, and decrepitude 
of age. 

And yet of purest happiness I have some transient gleams ; 
'T is when, upon my pallet rude, I lose myself in dreams : 
The gloomy present fades away ; the sad past seems forgot ; 
And in those visions of the night, mine is a blissful lot. 

The dead then come and visit me : I hear my father's voice ; 
I hear that gentle mother's tones, which make my heart re- 
joice ; 

24 



27S 



SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



Her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow, 
And she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now. 

But sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears ; 

To find myself the creature yet of misery and tears : 

And then, once more, I try to sleep, and know the thrilling 

bliss. 
To see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss. 

And sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been 

given — 
An entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven ; 
I have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden 

lyre, 
And seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome 

choir. 

And I have dropped this earthly frame, this frail, disgusting 

clay. 
And, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away; 
I have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright. 
Which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living 

light. 

I have joined the swelling chorus of the holy, glittering 

bands. 
Who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their 

hands : 
But the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the 

morn. 
And the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and 

scorn. 

I care not for their mockery now — the thought disturbs me 

not, 
That, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot ; 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 



279 



But I would gladly welcome here, some slight reprieve from 

pain, 
And I M murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache 

again. 

Full well I know this ne'er can be, till I with peace am blest, 
Where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at 

rest ; 
Where these lips shall be forever sealed, earth's weary toil 

be done. 
And Death shall throw his friendly shroud o'er the unsightly 

one. 



280 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



THE LAME CHILD TO HER MOTHER. 

Mother, what makes you look so sad ? a tear is in your eye, 
Your breast with sighs doth often heave, mother, what makes 

you cry ? 
Is it for me, your crippled girl, that thus you often weep. 
That fear and grief with withering touch across your heart- 
strings sweep ? 

I know I am a helpless one ; my steps may never fall 
With bounding gladness at your side, or in my father's hall ; 
For I dependant still must be as lengthening years pass by, 
An infant in my helplessness till in the grave I lie. 

But this is not the cause that brings such scalding tears from 

thee, 
It is not that I ne'er can be of any use to thee ; 
It is, I know, because you think my childish heart is sad, 
But, mother dear, though I am lame, there 's much to make 

me glad. 

My sisters bring their garlands bright, of fresh and lovely 

flowers. 
They bring to you the berries plucked in merry leisure hours. 
I do not this, but while I sit, my muslin is inwrought 
With fruits and flowers as beautiful, as those that they have 

brought. 

Then, as my snowy wreaths I place around your neck and 

head, 
I think that they will still be fresh when all of theirs are 

dead. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 281 

And if I with my pencil trace the scene they make so gay, 
My sketch will still delight them all when they have ceased 
to play. 

And oft the children's merry sports my bounding heart will 

share, 
I seem to feel the merry swing that rushes through the air, 
I 'm first to know who 's out and in^ I watch the bounding 

ball. 
And almost start, as down it comes, to catch it ere it fall. 

But when they choose their plays afar, that I ne'er see or 

share. 
Why then I take my book and sit in my small easy-chair ; 
The pleasant things I often read sure I should never know 
If 1 could dance and run about where other children go. 

I sometimes think the guests that come, and praise my active 

mind. 
Who linger oft around me so, and look so pleased and kind, 
That they would pass me quickly by, and scarcely ask my 

name. 
But that I am a little girl, and oh, so very lame. 

It seemeth too that I have more of my kind father's love. 
Because my helplessness and pain doth his compassion move, 
He often strains me to his heart, and takes me on his knee, 
And tells me of his fondest love, and speaks so tenderly. 

How blessed is my lot in this, the ill that on me came 
Has opened every heart to me, and yet I 'm only lame ; 
For with their love and sympathy I 've still such blessings 

left. 
The outward world is not to me of loveliness bereft. 
24* 



282 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Had I been blind — had earth ne'er been thus glorious to 

mine eye, 
Could ne'er have watched the sparkling stars, or seen the 

clouds go by, 
What pleasure lost would this have been, that now is bliss to 

me, 
But I can now admire them all, dear mother, I can see. 

The joyous sounds of morning ring now gaily in mine ear, 
The pensive tones of even-tide, these also I can hear, 
The strains of joy from human voice that float upon the air. 
All sounds of sorrow or delight with others I can share. 

But, better far than this the thought, that I can fondly love. 
That deeper feelings rest with me, because I cannot rove. 
All fond affections in my heart are nursed by constant thought, 
And this, dear mother, is a gift I still to you have brought. 

At times I 'm sad, because on earth, my limbs should thus 

be bound, 
But then I raise my thoughts to Him whose love is all around, 
To whom we never need to go, save with our hearts in prayer, 
Who keeps the humblest little child in His unfailing care. 

And oft I think of that blest time, when, free in every limb, 
I '11 wing my way up to His throne, and be still nearer Him, 
Then, mother, in that perfect birth, I'll bless His holy name, 
That, when He fashioned me for earth. He made me only 
lame. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 283 



THE DREAM-LAND. 



I. 

There 's a beautiful land — 't is the land of dreanns ; 
'T is watered by sparkling though ideal streams, 
'Tis blessed with a balmy and unchanging clime, 
Has vales of green beauty, and mountains sublime ; 
'T is laved by an ocean ne'er tossed by rude storms, 
'T is peopled with slight and aerial forms, 
'T is shadowed by clouds, of all-glorious dies, 
Which sail o'er the depths of cerulean skies ; 
Its sun shines unclouded o'er cities of gold. 
The wealth of its temples may never be told, 
Its palaces glow with the radiant light 
Of diamonds and rubies and gems ever bright ; 
Its groves with rich fragrance stand ever arrayed. 
Its flowers are of brilliance that never may fade. 
Its fountains send upward their unbroken gleams, 
And a beautiful land is the land of dreams. 



II. 

I love from earth's toils, from its sorrows, to hie. 
And, on Fancy's light wings, to the dream-land I fly. 
To hear the lo v hymns of the soft waving trees, 
And the anthem the waterfall sings to the breeze, 
The loud hallelujahs which constantly rise 
Where the cataract lifteth its voice to the skies. 
But sweeter than these are the musical tones 
Of the joyous, the cherished, the beautiful ones, 



284 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Who come to me there with unfaltering voice, 

And bid me be fearless, take heart, and rejoice. 

Oh, these are the friends who never grow old ; 

And theirs is the love which never seems cold ; 

I hear the glad tones of affection, which fall 

On mine ear with an accent which never may pall, 

And my heart swelleth high as it lists to that word 

Which save in the dream-land it never hath heard. 

There the ties which we form. Death never may break, 

There the friends are all true — they never forsake, 

They turn not away — they never seem strange, 

In the dream-land is friendship which never may change. 



III. 

Yes, I go to the dream-land — and there I grow strong 

To bear the sad burden of sorrow and wrong, 

Which Earth presselh hard on the neck of her child. 

And leaveth it seldom by gladness beguiled. 

I never hope here for the joys of that land. 

But 'midst its dark tempests more firmly I stand, 

For I think that at times from its storms I can flee. 

Where there 's brightness, unmingled with darkness, for me ; 

I hear with more calmness the edicts of fate 

When I think of the pleasures which still can elate ; 

I look with a tenderness on the lost friend 

Whose affections I early had mourned at an end, 

For I find in the dream-land the sympathy lost, 

The love which or death or estrangement had crossed. 

Then my heart is renewed as it bathes in the bliss 

Which it finds in that land, but expects not in this. 

And mine eye drinketh in the full brightness which streams 

In an unfailing flood o'er the blessed land of dreams. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 285 



IV. 



There are times when my soul, with a purer delight, 

Plumes its wings for another, and holier flight ; 

When it seeks for its joy and its strength at the throne 

Of the High and the Holy all-glorious One ; 

When it looketh afar, o'er the shadows of earth. 

And over the land where dreams have their birth, 

It craveth a foretaste of heavenly joy, 

Of bliss which is real, yet hath no alloy ; 

Where our dear ones have life, but death never know ; 

Where all, which in fondness we cling to below, 

Is transferred in beauty to regions on high. 

Where the bright is the fadeless — ^the frail may not die, 

Where the fair and the noble are all that they seem, 

And truth, love, and gladness, are aught but a dream. 



286 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 



ROOM FOR THE DEAD. 

The following lines were suggested by Clearing an allusion to that beautiful 
Swedenborgian superstition, that the dead, though invisible, are ever 
around us. 

" Ye are not dead to us ; 

But as bright stars unseen, 
We hold that ye are ever near, 

Though death intrudes between, 
Like some thin cloud, that veils fronn sight 
The countless spangles of the night." 

Room for the dead ! 
O, let them come, with gentle noiseless tread, 
And hold communion sweet, once more. 
With those that they have loved in days of yore. 
As though we heard their voices in the air. 
For the departed ones we will prepare : 
Nay, but they are not gone ; for, even yet. 
Among the fire-side circle they shall sit ; 
Bringing, to earth, their blessings from afar. 
Like light and guidance of some brilliant star. 
Room for the dead ! 

Room for the dead ! 
Here let that old man come, with silvered head ! 
And, though ye may not see him sitting there, 
Yet taketh he again the old arm-chair. 
And casts around a look benign, while we 
Bend, as in youth, to him the filial knee. 
His trembling hand shall rest, ere he depart, 
Upon my head ; his blessing on my heart. 
Room for the dead ! 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 287 

Room for the dead ! 
For her who erst my infant footsteps led ! 
Who loved me, with a mother's holiest love ; 
And keepeth watch, from her bright home above, 
Save when she comes, with unseen step and smile, 
And bids me wait here patiently awhile. 
Enduring all, with firm unwavering faith, 
And looking calmly for approach of Death ! 
Room for the dead ! 

Room for the dead ! 
For those with whom such bright hours sped. 
When we have met, in light and careless play, 
And frolicked childhood's sunny hours away. 
They were an angel band — and Death hath made 
No change, save that by changelessness conveyed : 
Theirs is the lot of an immortal youth ; 
They come to me with childhood's love and truth. 
Room for the dead ! 

Room for the dead ! 
Brother, return ! thou bringest here no dread. 
Though thou, 'neath Ocean's waves, wast laid to sleep. 
My faith shall bid thee rise, and walk upon the deep : 
Here thou shalt meet with those who, 'neath the sod. 
Have left the body to await its Maker — God. 
And thou shalt tell them Death is e'er the same. 
Whether he come in wave, or sword, or flame. 
Room for the dead ! 

Room for the dead ! 
Room for the loved one ; whom, in youth, I wed 
Back to my arms and heart, O, let him come. 
And gladden, with his presence, still this home. 



288 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Then I will wipe my widow's tears away, 
Again with him I'll kneel, and softly pray; 
I '11 sit, and gaze with rapture, in his eyes, 
And sing, with him, the song of Paradise. 
Room for the dead ! 

E-oom for the dead ! 
For him o'er whom my poor wrung heart has bled ; 
Now let me see my cherub boy once more. 
And all a mother's fondness o'er him pour ; 
'T was Heav'n that gave, and Heav'n that took away. 
And I with resignation well may pray, 
Since joy is mine, that, on my throbbing breast, 
My child again may lie, and take sweet rest. 
Room for the dead ! 

Room for the dead ! 
Come ye for whom my board hath oft been spread ; 
Seats are prepared, and we a feast will make, 
Of which the unseen ones may well partake. 
Here we our converse joyfully will hold. 
Of Heaven, its King, its courts, and streets of gold — 
This earth shall grow more beautiful as we 
Lift up the veil, that hides eternity. 
And happiness our homes will ne'er forsake. 
If, at our hearths and boards, we ever make 
Room for the dead. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 289 



THE HEATHEN WIFE. 

They answered and said unto Ezra, " We have trespassed against our God 
and have taken strange wives of the people of the land ; jet now there is 
hope in Israel concerning this thing. Now, therefore, let us make a 
covenant with our God to put away all the wives, and such as are born of 
them, according to the counsel of my lord, and of those that tremble at 
the commandment of our God ; and let it be done according to the law." 

Bible. 

MEENA. 

And now the evening's light, like garment pale, 
Hangs o'er Jerusalem. The arching heavens. 
Without one cloud to break the stern deep blue, 
Enclose the scene ; as though, its pure embrace 
Within, it held a purer earth than skies 
Of distant lands e'er look upon. That moon afar — 
See how, like a thin burnished shred of clouds 
Once there, she in the ether hangs — as she 
Were but a lone and modest guest in that 
Far sky, and gives to us her placid smile 
That Earth may holier if not brighter seem. 
The breezes now sing pensively their hymn 
To the hushed earth, and Jordan's waves send back 
A murmur of response. Save these I hear 
No sound but breathings faint of my hushed babe. 
I wish the boy would wake, for e'en his cries 
To still were better far than here to sit 
So fearfully alone. This is, mayhap, 
As I have often heard, a sacred land ; 
But ah, to me its holiness is gloom ; 
Its temple is a place for awe and fear ; 
25 



290 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Its priests are solemn men, whose glances fierce 
Strike in my soul deep dread. Those, too, whom once 
I pitied much, and cheered and smiled upon, 
The daughters of the land, look on me cold 
And proud ; not as mine eye fell then on theirs 
When strangers they in a strange far-off land. 
Yet this would nothing be were Hanan's eye 
The same, his tones unchanged, his love as firm 
And strong as when he poured, by Babel's streams, 
Upon my ever-willing ear, those hopes 
And fears and vows which then were love. 

'T is gone — 
Oh, no, it is not gone, that cherished love. 
My heart still riseth up, and pleads for his, 
Whene'er a doubt intrudes. Yet passing strange 
It seems that he so often now doth leave 
My side, nor telleth e'er why thus away ; 
And seems as pained whene'er I speak of this. 
Why may I not his troubles share ? Ah me ! 
There have been new-born thoughts my soul within. 
On which I would not look ; and whose faint cry 
I stifled quick. They tell me that — But here 
He comes, and now himself shall tell me all. 

HANAN. 

Meena — at this late hour — in this lone spot ! 
Why here ? I bade thee wait me not. Thy couch 
Hath long awaited thee. The shadows fall 
Upon thine eyes, and their bright lustre veil. 
The hues of even-tide with thy cheek's glow 
Now darkly blend, and hide from me, from all, 
Thy loveliness. Now to thy couch — for though 



• OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 291 

Thou beauty hast, and grace, yet both increase 
With day's bright beams, and I will look on thee, 
And on thy babe, with morrow's dawn. 

MEENA. 

Hanan ! 
On me, and on my babe, why not now look ? 
From us why turn ? But I to thee must speak 
Ere my couch greeteth me, and thou must hear. 
And thou must speak to me of that thy heart 
Within that lieth hid. The light fond words 
I heard but now are not the ones which press, 
In thy full heart, for utterance first. 
At times like this such trivial words weigh down 
Upon my soul more than the heaviest may. 
Now tell me, in this midnight hour, with stars 
Hung brightening o'er us both, and moonlight calm 
In all the air, o'er all the earth, and here 
Our babe in happy sleep upon my knee — 
Now tell me solemn words, such as my love, 
Earnest and fond and true, hath merited 
From thee. 

HANAN. 

Meena ; affection, such as thine. 
So constant, pure and deep, should win for thee 
Love in return such as I may not give. 
A husband is not all I 've been to thee. 
But thy divinity, thy god. Such love 
I might not e'er return, except with one 
Which would be falsehood to my God. I may 
Not now be true to Him and thee. Meena ; 
With falsehood to my God I too am false 



292 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

To self and thee. With truth to Him I still 

Am true to all on earth. From me shrink not ; 

But let thy true love be thy strength. 

In wedding thee I sinned ; but to persist 

In wrong can ne'er repair the fault. And now — 

Amidst the jubilee we shout, the praise 

We sing for Israel's deliverance — 

Ascend the notes of lamentation deep 

In that we turned aside from Moses' law, 

And Abraham's God. We sing hosannas loud 

That we from bondage now are free, but we 

Repent with prayer and sacrifice for sins 

Like this, and earnestly beseech that He 

Will turn aside His wrath. His vengeance spare. 

Though we have sinned so fearfully this once ; 

Though we have taken aliens to our sides, 

And heathen wives unto our hearts. Meena ! 

'T was cruelty to thee in that thy love 

I wooed, yet not a meditated wrong. 

When we were taken captives to thy land 

There was a death of hopes — high hopes, that thou 

Canst ne'er conceive. We by our God were now 

Forsook ; our land no longer ours ; our homes 

To strangers all ^vere given — Jerusalem 

Sat like a widow desolate, in tears. 

Then Zion mourned upon her holy hill — 

We 'midst the Gentiles dwelt — strangers our lords. 

And yet we lived — on us the morning dawned ; 

The bright sun rose, and set, and rose again. 

Night came with darkness wished, and then away 

It passed. We lived — but still to us no life 

Was in our life, for hope and joy were dead. 

'T was then I first met thee : I was alone. 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 



^93 



There was no one to wish me joy, or strive 
To share my woes. The daughters of our race — 
They sat them down by Babel's streams and wept ; 
Their harps upon the willows hung ; their songs 
Of praise were mute. Their countenances sad 
I could not look upon. Yes, then I saw 
Thee first. Thy face was bright with hope ; 
And when thy smile upon the captive fell, 
'Twas light of morn to him. Sadness at times 
Was on thy brow ; but only when from mine 
A shadow darkly passed, and rested there. 
But then how soon 't was light and peace again ! 
The floweret frail looks upward to the sun — 
And the bruised reptile seeks the softest moss — 
The heart-pierced bird flies to his downy nest — 
The wounded beast hies to the thicket's shade. 
Thus sought I thee ; my heart was never thine — 
'T was in Jerusalem ; and in the void 
It left was never love, but thy affection there 
Was as a roseate veil hung o'er a recess dark. 
And how I prized that beauteous shroud. With thee, 
As in a fitful dream, passed life awhile — 
And then I woke. Awoke to find that God, 
Our Great and Holy God, still cared for us ; 
That He would turn to us, if we would but 
Return to Him — that all past promised joys. 
And blessings great, should be vouchsafed to us. 
If we His law would still obey, and still 
Jehovah God would worship and adore. 
But He a sacrifice will ne'er accept 
From hands unclean, or hearts untrue. 
His last commandment we must all obey — 
All who in this have sinned, and wed strange wives, 
25* 



294 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

And in this thing have sinfully forgot 

The daughters of Jerusalem. This day 

We all have met, confessed our wrong, and sworn 

To put from us what in His sacred eye 

Is an abomination foul. 

MEENA. 

This was the thought I would not think ; 
The fear I would not dread ; the ill I hoped 
Against so long. The mystery is solved. 
And yet it was not this ; for he, who thus 
Can speak, Hanan, is surely never thee. 
Thy words upon mine ear have fallen now, 
And yet I do not take their import strange. 
Husband ! I dream that thou hast been unkind. 
Forgive ; for oh, I struggle 'gainst the dream. 
Speak, love ; and break this spell. Support me — I am 

stunned — 
'T will soon be o'er, and I will smile on thee, 
And dissipate thy gloom ; yes, here, in thine 
Own land, how happy we will be. 

Yet, no ! 
'T is not a dream. She who upon thy breast 
Her head hath laid, is now " strange wife " — her love 
An unclean thing, her words " abomination foul." 
And thou hast never loved — but 'twas well feigned, 
Or I was very weak. You sought a bride 
As the worn traveller takes a cordial cup ; 
Or he who fain would sleep, an opiate ; 
Or as the Bacchanalian seeks his wine ; 
And drew aifections forth, as bright skies win 
The new-fledged birds, to send them back, as soiled 
And w^ounded things, to the heart's home ; now left, 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 295 

i 

By tlie rude storm o'erswept, so desolate. j 

My love for you went forth as morning prayer, j 

E'en in departure bringing purity ; * j 

And while its memory will ever live ^ 

Within my heart, giving each word its tone, | 

Each look its woe, each dream, by night or day, 

The all of which our dreams are ever made, \ 

'T will nothing be to thee. Full well I know 

'Twill be my thought at morn, my word at noon, 

And aye at eve my meditation be. ^ 

Mem'ry, with thee, will be but that o'er which j 

To reign triumphantly ; yea, to exult 

As when beneath thy feet a scorpion j 

Lies crushed. Hanan ! if thy great fearful God J 

Demands of thee a purer, holier love, i 

Than that which erst has blest our lives — 

Has he for thee a task, which better is 

Than to make happy those, whose happiness j 

Upon thy love and kindly care depends, • 

Then art thou now forgiven by that God. 

I to a gentler shrine will now return. \ 

But ah ! I ne'er can kneel as I have knelt. i 

I ne'er, until I gave my heart to thee, i 

But happiness had known. Then first my soul \ 

Felt sadness, like soft shadows, o'er it steal, j 

And learned to love the fascinating gloom. ] 

Kind deeds, like summer showers, upon thy race 

Were poured by me, and mine. Thou hadst still more. i 

Thy lofty grief my heart impressed with sense 

Of high and rarest worth. For thy sad lot 

I mourned — such pity is akin to love. 

Thy converse grave my admiration won ; ; 

And soon in thee I worshipped all my heart : 



296 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND 

Had pictured forth as good, and great, and pure • 

When on me fell the shadow of thy grief. 

It changed to Hght within my heart. 

And then, as time passed on, to think my voice 

Alone was music to thine ear — that step 

Of mine was waited for — and my least glance 

Was to thy heart as sunshine on the stream. 

To know I linked my fate with one as dark 

As thine was my first grief ; my first true joy. 

Thou knowest that mine was e'er a happy lot 

In that first home — how I was loved, admired, 

Caressed, and guarded tenderly. My heart 

Was sought by lovers true, of mine own race. 

And sought in vain. My love for them was like 

Some merry bird, which from its nest, in green 

And fragrant bowers, may not be wooed — but still 

Amidst its blossoms sings, and flutters o'er 

The hands that vainly to imprison strive. 

My love for thee was like that gentle dove 

Of which I 've heard thee speak ; which left the ark, 

So long its sheltering home, and forth it went 

O'er wild and stormy waves. At first a leaf. 

An olive branch, it plucked ; and, on its stem, 

A promise bright it saw in embryo there. 

Full soon the happy bird saw mountain heights, 

Then forest tops, then hills, and plains, and then 

The waters all had passed away, and earth 

Again was beautiful, and bright, and new. 

The bird has built her nest ; and a sweet one, 

A tender fledgling there, has centred all 

The mother's heart within that little spot. 

Shall waves of bitterness that world o'erflow, 

And that creation new a flood destroy ? 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 297 



HANAN. 

Nay, nay, not so ! the boy is all thine own — 

We both have watched with joy his little limbs 

Expand — have waited his first smile — outvied 

Each other in caresses fond, and we 

Have triiimphed in his infantile exploits. 

Now he is thine — all thine ! — take, take him hence ; 

Let him love thee, and only thee ! and thou 

For us shalt love and guard and cherish him. 

MEENA. 

The child is mine — there is then in my night 
One star, and oh, how bright — in Life's wild waste 
One sparkling stream — one verdant spot within 
A desert track. Must I now give to him 
The all of love I Ve felt for him and thee ? 
Then do I fear that I may love too well. 
Affection, such as mine, must be to him 
Like offerings heaped upon an altar frail. 
May they not crush the shrine. He 's like a bough, 
A slender withe, o'er which luxuriantly 
A vine has thrown its weight of tendrils soft. 
And clustering fruit. May they not break the stem. 
Or like a harp, o'er which uneasy fingers pass. 
With restless, constant sweep. May they not mar 
The tones, or break the strings. My boy ! my boy ! 
From my excess of love, mayst thou no sufferer be. 
But to be wholly mine, and all that 's mine — 
Yet I am not deceived. Hanan ; for this 
I thank the heathen blood that in these veins 
Courses its way, not thee. And did thy God require 
That this child's blood should feed his altar fire, 



298 SHELLS FROM THE STRAND ; 

These limbs upon a gory shrine would soon be laid, | 

And I by thee a childless widow made. \ 

Farewell ! ; 

HANAN. ; 

Turn not away, my wife ! — the night is dark, i 

And now 't is surely time to seek thy rest : 

Let 's to our home and couch. ! 

MEENA. '■ 

Our home ! our couch ! j 

Nay, I am not thy wife ! I am divorced ; j 

And oh ; the deed is thine. Ne'er at thy side ] 

Again may I seek rest — I wish not sleep — ' 

Israel may sleep, and dream bright gladsome dreams ; | 
But not a Persian wife or mother here 

Should close an eye this night. I go from thee, i 
To those who now are partners in my grief. 

Nay, touch me not — not one embrace — but thou j 

Mayst kiss the boy — there, gently, on his brow ; \ 

And where thy lips in this embrace shall rest, | 

There, too, in coming time shall mine be pressed. i 

Hanan, again farewell ! ] 

HANAN. i 

Yes, she is gone ! | 



Of all I swore to do I have not spared — 

God of my fathers ! I have yielded all 

A sacrifice to thee. Bless Thou the deed. 

On me, and all who with me greatly sinned. 

And have with me repented of their guilt. 

Pour Thy rich blessings down. Let thine eyes look 



OF THE SEA OF GENIUS. 



299 



With favor on thy servants here, and smile 
Upon Jerusalem. Oh let her glory shine 
Unto the farthest lands ; and people of all climes 
Fear us, and also serve and worship Thee. 
And on Thy servant, Lord, who now before 
Thee kneels in humble penitence, look down. 
Look graciously, Great God ! May all my sins 
Forgotten be, and blotted from Thy book. 
Bless her, whom as a partner I shall take — 
One now who as her God will worship Thee. 
May she like Rachel loved and lovely be ; 
Like Leah, mother of a household band, 
As many olive-plants around her home. 
And from my loins may promised Shiloh come, 
To whom all nations, at some future time, 
Shall gathered be. Let Him, King of all kings. 
Lord of all earthly lords, Messiah he. 
Of thy long-chosen race, thy Israel — 
God of my fathers ! let me parent be 

of Him, Immanuel, the Holy One 

But what ! Meena ! hast thou returned ? 

MEENA. 

I left thee in an angry mood, or one 
I justly feared might seem as such to thee. 
I know not well what I should think or speak. 
But I would e'er be kind, nor leave with thee 
The memory of bitter parting words. 



I looked behind 
And saw thee on thy knees in earnest prayer. 
My heart quick told me this, that thou didst plead 
For me and mine — for strength to bear this stroke 



300 SHELLS FROx^ THE STRAND 

And blessings on our lot. Unjust to thee 

I will not ever be ; and will, methink, 

That e'en in this thou hast been true to Him 

Whom thou hast worshipped e'er — true to thyself, 

The Israelite I loved. And T will still 

Be true — true to myself, our boy, and thee. 

No ; I will not be sad — not when this stroke, 

In its first bitterness and pain is o'er. 

For I will learn to smile upon my boy, 

And I will tell him of his father's God, 

Of Abraham's faith, of Moses' rites and law, 

Of all which I have learned in life with thee ; 

And if it meet his heart, as it has ne'er 

Met mine, and he shall come to worship here, 

And kneel beside the children of thy wife, 

Thy blessed and happier wife — then lay thine hand 

Upon his head, and from a father's lips 

Let a rich blessing sink into his heart. 

And think, think kindly once, of her who then 

Will be no more. 



> 



• January 1, 1847. 

A LIST OF BOOKS 

RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY 

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CHARLES T. BROOKS. William Tell, a Drama, 

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HENRY TAYLOR. Philip Van Artevelde, a Dra- 

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STEPHEN G. BULFINCH. Lays of the Gospel. 

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LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Pleasant Memories of 

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• XTIl. 

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TRANSLATIONS. 



ESSAYS ON ART. Translated from the German 

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WALT AND VULT, or THE TWINS. Translated 

from the German of Jean Paul Richter, by Mrs. T. Lee. Two 
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SELECT MINOR POEMS. Translated from the Ger- 

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CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS 

ESSAYS, 

By ALEXATVDER H. EVERETT. 

TO WHICH ARE ADDED A FEW POEMS. 



JAMES MUNROE & COMPANY publish and 
have for sale the First Vohime of Mr. Everett's 
Essays, published a year since, in the same form 
and size as the edition of the Second Series, this 
year published. The volume includes the follow- 
ing Essays. 

Madame de Sevigne ; Who Wrote Gil Blas ? The 
Life of Bernardin de St. Pierre ; The Life and 
Writings of Schiller; Geoffroy on French Dra- 
matic Literature ; Private Life of Voltaire ; The 
Art of Being Happy ; The Life and Works op 
Canova ; Sir James Mackintosh ; Cicero on Gov- 
ernment ; A Dialogue on Government between 
Franklin and Montesquieu; Chinese Manners; 
The Sabbath. 

The same volume contains the following Po- 
ems ; — which are also published separately by 
J. M. & Co. 

The Hermitage, an Eastern Tale. The Grecian Gossips, 
from Theocritus. The Exile's Lament, from Virgil. 
Scenes from Goethe's Faust. The Worth of Wo- 
man, from Schiller. The Spectral Bridegroom, from 
Biirger. The Water King. The Portress. The 
Maid of Oberland. The Fifth of May, from Man- 
zoni. Enigma. The Dirge of Larra, from Zorilla. 
The Young American. The Funeral of Goethe, 
by Harro Harring. 



8 EVERETT'S MISCELLANIES, FIRST SERIES. 

[From the Christian Examiner.] 
* * * " This volume is meant to preserve in a permanent 
form the contributions which Mr. Everett has made to the peri- 
odical literature of his country. A part of the interest which 
attaches to such papers on their first appearance, must neces- 
sarily cease with the lapse of time ; yet there is a peculiar 
pleasure in recurring, after a writer has established a wide and 
sure reputation, to his earlier or more ephemeral productions. 
» * # The volume contains, we believe, only the smaller 
portion of the articles with which Mr. Everett has enriched our 
critical literature. The public, we suppose, are less familiar 
with his name as a poet than as a writer of prose. We are 
glad, however, to meet the productions of his muse in compan- 
ionship with his Miscellaneous Essays. The volume will be 
welcomed by the public as embodying some of the choicest 
pages of our literary journals, and we hope that the writer may 
be induced soon to give us one or more additional volumes." 



[From the Democratic Beview.] 

"Mr. Everett is one of that class of men, the growth of thirty 
continuous years of comparative peace, now enjoyed by Chris- 
tendom, who, to eminent natural endowments and high literary 
cultivation, add the qualities and the distinction of a practical 
statesman. For, if the great nations of Europe and America 
have, some of them, been more or less engaged, during the 
present generation, in conflict with the barbarian or semi-civilized 
races around them, — and if others have seen their own soil 
stained by civil bloodshed, — yet they have been withheld from 
mutual hostilities, until the empire of the Voice and the Pen 
has almost superseded that of the Sword ; and Mind has found 
a nobler and more congenial field of ambition in the arts and 
accomplishments of Peace, rather than of War. Thus it is, 
that, to names like those of Lord John Russell and Macaulay 
in England, or Guizot and Thiers in France, we may, on our 
part, point to those of Bancroft, of Irving, and of the two 
Everetts, as alike conspicuous in literature and in public life. 

" Known already by his grave and elaborate works on Europe 



EVERETT'S MISCELLANIES, FIRST SERIES. 



and America, Mr. Everett will acquire additional reputation by 
this collection of Critical and Miscellaneous Essays. Familiar 
with the languages and the literature of modern as of ancient 
Europe, thoroughly imbued with the principles of a pure and 
correct taste, possessed of a discriminative and exact judgment, 
and with a style at once vigorous, clear, expressive, and fault- 
lessly elegant, Mr. Everett has, in this volume, laid before us a 
series of most instructive and agreeable literary disquisitions, on 
Sevign6, Le Sage, St. Pierre, Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, 
Canova, Schiller, Mackintosh, and Cicero, among other sub- 
jects ; and, in a small collection of fugitive pieces subjoined to 
the Essays, has shown that he is a successful worshipper of the 
poetic Muse. 

* * * * u jj^ conclusion, we have to express the high 
gratification we have received from the reperusal of these Es- 
says, in collecting which from the periodical works in which 
they originally appeared, and thus rendering them more ac- 
cessible to the general reader, the publishers have done a ser- 
vice to the literary community, as in the correspondent cases of 
Mr. Macaulay's and Mr. Prescott's 'Miscellanies;' and we 
trust the same good office will be performed ere long in behalf 
of similar writings of Mr. Edward. Everett, and other contribu- 
tors to the periodical literature of the United States." 

[From the Southern Quarterly Review.] 
" We have derived great pleasure from the perusal of this 
book, and we mean to speak of it as we think it deserves. It 
is possible that a few readers may think that we go too far ; 
but even they will not doubt our sincerity, when we confess 
that we were over two months reading it, without growing 
weary of our task. It certainly argues something in favor of 
an author, in these days of rail-road speed, that one should be 
content to keep his book at his side, and travel slowly through 
it, every day soiling the edge of a few more pages, with the 
pressure of his glove ; and it takes but little from the value of 
the compliment, to acknowledge, that during this time we were 
wandering through a beautiful country, and had but little time 
to read. 



10 EVERETT'S MISCELLANIES, FIRST SERIES. 

'* When our trunk was first packed, this book shared a cor- 
ner, with a half dozen other volumes, but after a while, it had 
the corner to itself. One by one the others fell away, some 
were given to friends, others were forgotten upon leaving a 
steamboat, or a coach, or a rail-road car, and now, upon our 
return, this volume lies upon the desk, as the solitary memorial 
of our wanderings." * * * * 

*' It consists of essays or reviews, contributed during the last 
twenty years to various periodicals. In the course of them, our 
author treats in an interesting and instructive way, of several 
important matters, such as the Life and Writings of Madame 
deSevign^, Bernardin de St. Pierre, Schiller, Voltaire, Canova, 
Sir James Mackintosh, and Cicero ; he almost settles the dis- 
puted point, that Le Sage did not write Gil Bias ; he gives an 
amusing picture of Chinese manners ; teaches, in a happy man- 
ner, the art of being happy, and concludes the first part of his 
Miscellanies with some beautiful remarks upon the Sabbath." * * 

"At the end of the volume we have fourteen interesting 
Poems, which show that Everett, in the midst of his various 
and pressing engagements, has still found time to refresh his 
spirits with a draught from Helicon." 



" Many will welcome the appearance of this volume, preserv- 
ing, as it does, some of the best articles which have ever ap- 
peared in our periodicals. Before they were thus collected, 
they must have been sought with difficulty from among the 
mass of contemporaneous writings, and at last might have been 
overlooked and forgotten. The author is but doing justice to 
his own fame when he brings together these scattered Essays 
and Criticisms, each of them possessing individual interest and 
attraction of a high order, which is enhanced by their appear- 
ance together in a neat and permanent form. Some of the 
articles found in this volume bear the dates of 1820, '21, and 
'23, and of course are new to man}?" of this day, who will be- 
come acquainted with them for the first time in their present 
dress ; and to those who read them at the period when they 
first appeared, it will be equally interesting to revive the im- 



EVERETT'S MISCELLANIES, FIRST SERIES. 



pression they then produced. The Poems are mostly trans- 
lations or imitations of foreign poets ; but we recognize a 
beautiful ' Enigma,' and some noble stanzas entitled ' The 
Young American,' which first appeared in the Democratic Re- 
view. This volume is published in beautiful style by James 
Munroe & Company." — Salem Gazette. 



" To praise Mr. Everett's writings would be superfluous. He 
ranks as one of the most profound students and elegant writers 
whom our country affords. His opportunities for gaining ex- 
tensive and varied information have been as well improved as 
they have been great and uncommon for a citizen of this Re- 
public. His style is suited to the subject which he has occasion 
to treat: at times, strong and powerful; at others, light and 
humorous ; but always elegant and interesting. The volume 
before us is a valuable contribution to our literature. It would 
not be inappropriate as a New Year present to a literary friend." 
— Springfield Republican. 

* * * * a \yg make another extract from an agreeable 
review of a collection of Chinese novels. At the present time, 
when the mysteries of the Chinese Empire are but just open- 
ing to us, this sketch of a remarkable feature of their very curi- 
ous literature, will attract general attention. Their civilization 
is at the least not behind that of the West in the luxuries of 
novel reading and writing. It seems that they are as fully sup- 
plied with ' light and cheap literature ' as we are. 

"Three articles, on graver subjects, comprise the greater part 
of the rest of the prose of the volume. These are a criticism 
on Cicero's Republic, an article on Sir James Mackintosh's 
Life and Writings, and a ' Dialogue of the Dead,' between 
Franklin and Montesquieu, on the principles which should be 
consulted in the formation of Representative Governments. Mr. 
Everett's personal acquaintance with Sir James Mackintosh, fur- 
nishes an interesting part of the material for the second of these 
articles. 

" Some of the Poems have never been published until now, 
and few of them have been published in such form as to bring 
them into general knowledge. 



12 EVERETT'S MISCELLANIES, FIRST SERIES. 

" The book more than equals the anticipations which we ex- 
pressed in regard to it some weeks since. We feel that that is 
a valuable addition to our libraries which rescues such essays 
from the neglect into which all periodical publications fall after 
their first issue. It would seem that the whole volume has un- 
dergone a careful revision." — Boston Daily Advertiser. 



" These selections are made from Mr. Everett's contributions 
to the North American and Democratic Reviews, and other pe- 
riodicals. 

" Mr. Everett's talents and ability as an Essayist have been long 
tested and generally acknowledged, and we trust that the sale 
of this volume will be sufficient to encourage the author to 
make another selection from his many valuable articles yet un- 
collected, and to furnish them for the public in a similar form." — 
Salem Register. 

" Mr. Alexander H. Everett is one of the best of American 
scholars, thoroughly versed in classical literature, and exten- 
sively familiar with the mind of the present age, in its every 
variety of situation and production. No man writes better prose 
than he. His style is always strong, clear, and elevated ; and 
with him language is ever but a vehicle of thought — and 
thought, too, that is important to be conveyed, because of its 
own intrinsic worth." — Worcester Palladium. 



The Second Volume of Mr. Everett's Essays is just now 
published by JAMES MUNROE &, CO. Contents : — 
Harro Harking, a Biographical Sketch ; Madame de 
Stael ; MusAEUs's Popular Tales ; Irving's Colum- 
bus; De Gerando's History of Philosophy ; Green- 
ough's Statue of Washington ; Stewart's Philoso- 
phy ; Life of Jean Jacques Rousseau ; Hatana ; 
History of Intellectual Philosophy ; Lord Vapor- 
court. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 785 909 2i 



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